I drive until I think there’s very little petrol left, past jetties, red and white and yellow cabins, moored-up traditional fishing boats, buoys, gulls, the occasional person passing me by, we wave at a distance, then I take the boat out of gear and breathe, out in the middle of the fjord, lie still and allow the boat to be rocked by the waves. I could have carried on, through the inlet and out to sea. Could be doing it right now. I could have forged ahead, on and on until I could no longer see land, until I grew smaller and smaller, until I eventually dissolved, turned to water, until I became shell and seaweed and stone. They wouldn’t notice. Where’s Ida? I don’t know. She was here not long ago, wasn’t she? She’ll be back. While they shout for Olea, stick a plaster on her knee, clap because she’s learnt how to turn cartwheels, while Marthe strokes her belly and reads a magazine. What happened to Ida? Things didn’t go so well for her in the end. Well, they went the way they 63had to go. It’s unfortunate. Yes, it was a sad affair. Where’s Olea, can you put her to bed tonight, I can’t face it, let’s go inside, what shall we have for dinner tomorrow night, who’s going to do the supermarket run, how do I look, is my bump getting bigger?

I feel movement below the boat, underneath it, as if the sea is pulling me down, I don’t cry, there’s nothing to cry about. Do I think that I’m a child, too? I’m not a child. I dip my hand in the water, spread my fingers wide, draw them though loose clumps of bladderwrack and something slimy and green, another type of seaweed, wash my hand clean again. I’m here, I think to myself, I’m here, I’m here. I’m here, I’m not going to die, I’m not going to disappear, I’m here.

65

Chapter 9

We’re eating lunch outside the cabin when Kristoffer sees Stein’s car coming along the road. Marthe has been in a bad mood all morning, she says she’s having stomach pains, and is short with Olea whenever she asks for something, no, you can’t have ice cream, not now, I don’t know if we’re going to go out in the boat, ask Daddy.

‘You said Daddy,’ Olea retorts with a smirk.

‘That’s right,’ Marthe says. ‘He is your daddy.’

‘But he’s not your daddy,’ Olea says.

‘Doesn’t your mummy call Kristoffer Daddy?’ I ask, taking a sip of my coffee.

‘Yes,’ Olea says.

‘But Marthe can’t?’ I ask.

Olea shakes her head and smiles; she has one finger in her mouth and is wobbling a loose tooth.

‘Why not?’ I ask. ‘Tell me, come on.’