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Authors: Dea Brovig
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him.’
‘Shouldn’t you meet him first?’ asks Lars.
‘They’ve just met each other,’ Else says.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘then there’s still hope for the boys of this town.’ He winks at Marianne. ‘ Skål ,’ he says. She lifts her glass and they drink. Marianne smiles.
The food is almost gone when the bonfire is lit. After the first burst of incidental flame a slow heat builds at its core, burning blue in places and shrivelling the kindling to ash. The children return from their play, the cuffs of their trousers damp. Else greets Liv with a towel and a lukewarm hotdog.
‘Did you catch any crabs?’ she asks.
‘Andreas threw them back when we were done,’ says Liv, a proud grin spreading over her cheeks. Else folds an arm around her granddaughter, rubbing at the chill that she guesses must have set under her skin, while Liv sniffs between mouthfuls. Behind them, the fire cracks and snaps and rises. Lars kneels and leans over the remains of the picnic, his finger cocked above the wine box’s spout.
‘No, thank you,’ Else says.
‘You’ll have some, won’t you?’ He refills Marianne’s cup. ‘ Skål .’
‘Maybe you’ve had enough,’ says Victoria in a whisper. Then, to the group, ‘Who was that man we met on the sailing boat?’
‘Another friend from school,’ says Lars. ‘I heard that Petter got divorced.’
‘That’s right,’ Else says.
‘And his wife is remarried.’
‘She is,’ she says.
Lars pries the cap off a beer. He helps himself to another once he has passed the wine box around again. The families with younger children begin to pack up their picnics and he unzips the cool bag for another bottle. He staggers to his feet when Victoria announces it is time to go, stretches and stumbles away to find somewhere to piss. By now Liv is sitting with Marianne, who whispers into her ear while Else looks on, her heart filling up. Her girls pick shapes from out of the flames and huddle close and she feels an urgency to join them, to plant herself between them and those who would intrude. Instead she replaces the tops on the Tupperware and packs the containers into plastic bags. Her arms are weighed down when she moves off, leaving Victoria to gather their rubbish.
The night cools as Else retreats from the bonfire. She waits by the speedboat for the others to catch her up, glad to have some moments to collect her thoughts, to admire the evening without being disturbed. She thinks of her mother then, of how, on this day every year, while she was still able to, she would build a bonfire on the rocks by the pier of the old farmhouse, keeping it burning until long after dark. Beyond the ring of boats that are docked at this island, bonfires fleck the sky up and down the skerry, their reflections streaking the water like setting suns. Else hears a rustle of material from the sailing boat and peers over the guardrail at Petter in the cockpit. He is buttoning his boat jacket. He glances up and blinks at her through his glasses.
‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘What for?’ he says.
Else balls a piece of torn tissue paper in her pocket.
‘How was the bonfire?’ asks Petter.
‘You can see it for yourself.’
‘The picnic, then,’ he says.
Else shrugs. Petter smiles and she peeks over her shoulder, fearing she has given too much away. Marianne and Liv arrive with Victoria, Andreas and Thea. The children search for shells to toss while the adults load the boat. When Lars reappears, he fishes the key from his pocket.
‘You’d better give it to me,’ Victoria says.
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘The police are bound to be doing spot checks.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of driving.’
‘You’re not driving,’ Victoria says.
With an exaggerated sigh, Lars relinquishes the key. Liv climbs aboard after Andreas and they each choose a side to pull in the fenders. Victoria pushes a button and the anchor retracts before Marianne leaps from land, holding the end of the rope. She stows it
‘Shouldn’t you meet him first?’ asks Lars.
‘They’ve just met each other,’ Else says.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘then there’s still hope for the boys of this town.’ He winks at Marianne. ‘ Skål ,’ he says. She lifts her glass and they drink. Marianne smiles.
The food is almost gone when the bonfire is lit. After the first burst of incidental flame a slow heat builds at its core, burning blue in places and shrivelling the kindling to ash. The children return from their play, the cuffs of their trousers damp. Else greets Liv with a towel and a lukewarm hotdog.
‘Did you catch any crabs?’ she asks.
‘Andreas threw them back when we were done,’ says Liv, a proud grin spreading over her cheeks. Else folds an arm around her granddaughter, rubbing at the chill that she guesses must have set under her skin, while Liv sniffs between mouthfuls. Behind them, the fire cracks and snaps and rises. Lars kneels and leans over the remains of the picnic, his finger cocked above the wine box’s spout.
‘No, thank you,’ Else says.
‘You’ll have some, won’t you?’ He refills Marianne’s cup. ‘ Skål .’
‘Maybe you’ve had enough,’ says Victoria in a whisper. Then, to the group, ‘Who was that man we met on the sailing boat?’
‘Another friend from school,’ says Lars. ‘I heard that Petter got divorced.’
‘That’s right,’ Else says.
‘And his wife is remarried.’
‘She is,’ she says.
Lars pries the cap off a beer. He helps himself to another once he has passed the wine box around again. The families with younger children begin to pack up their picnics and he unzips the cool bag for another bottle. He staggers to his feet when Victoria announces it is time to go, stretches and stumbles away to find somewhere to piss. By now Liv is sitting with Marianne, who whispers into her ear while Else looks on, her heart filling up. Her girls pick shapes from out of the flames and huddle close and she feels an urgency to join them, to plant herself between them and those who would intrude. Instead she replaces the tops on the Tupperware and packs the containers into plastic bags. Her arms are weighed down when she moves off, leaving Victoria to gather their rubbish.
The night cools as Else retreats from the bonfire. She waits by the speedboat for the others to catch her up, glad to have some moments to collect her thoughts, to admire the evening without being disturbed. She thinks of her mother then, of how, on this day every year, while she was still able to, she would build a bonfire on the rocks by the pier of the old farmhouse, keeping it burning until long after dark. Beyond the ring of boats that are docked at this island, bonfires fleck the sky up and down the skerry, their reflections streaking the water like setting suns. Else hears a rustle of material from the sailing boat and peers over the guardrail at Petter in the cockpit. He is buttoning his boat jacket. He glances up and blinks at her through his glasses.
‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘What for?’ he says.
Else balls a piece of torn tissue paper in her pocket.
‘How was the bonfire?’ asks Petter.
‘You can see it for yourself.’
‘The picnic, then,’ he says.
Else shrugs. Petter smiles and she peeks over her shoulder, fearing she has given too much away. Marianne and Liv arrive with Victoria, Andreas and Thea. The children search for shells to toss while the adults load the boat. When Lars reappears, he fishes the key from his pocket.
‘You’d better give it to me,’ Victoria says.
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘The police are bound to be doing spot checks.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of driving.’
‘You’re not driving,’ Victoria says.
With an exaggerated sigh, Lars relinquishes the key. Liv climbs aboard after Andreas and they each choose a side to pull in the fenders. Victoria pushes a button and the anchor retracts before Marianne leaps from land, holding the end of the rope. She stows it
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