Marthe swings her legs around and out of the hammock, her eyes are streaming. She stamps across the grass and walks straight past Kristoffer, he reaches out to grab her wrist and she lashes out in his direction as she passes him by. He glances over at me before following her inside. I lie back, kicking off from the ground beneath me and picking up speed, something quivers within me, something in the region of my diaphragm burns, a kind of queasy feeling, and I lie there and gaze upwards as I swing from side to side. The hammock smells of mildew, it must be almost as old as I am, it reminds me of biscuits and juice and Donald Duck comic books, with their tales of Scamp and Li’l Bad Wolf and Big Bad Wolf, tall blades of grass that you could cut yourself on. I hear loud voices coming from the cabin, the door leading out into the garden is open and I can hear every word they’re saying, then after a while I hear fast-paced footsteps making their way down the gravel path and a car starting up, I lie still and listen to everything, feel wide open, my own pulse drumming in my ears.

125

Chapter 18

An hour later, Marthe still hasn’t returned. I sit on the sofa and watch kids’ TV with Olea, she’s quiet and fidgety.

‘I don’t like her out driving like this, not when she’s so worked up,’ Mum says again, looking up. ‘She could veer right off the road.’

She and Stein set a jigsaw puzzle out on the kitchen table, it’s one they brought with them, some Disneyesque castle in Germany. They like doing jigsaws together, she’s told us. Stein says it’s good for the nerves, so when Marthe doesn’t pick up the phone and Mum can’t calm herself down, he fetches the box containing all one thousand pieces.

‘It’ll be OK,’ I repeat, then get up. ‘We have to stop imagining the worst. Does anyone want a cup of tea?’

‘Please,’ Mum says, smiling, grateful, I pat her shoulder and she strokes the back of my hand, holds on to it. Stein wants a cup of tea too. We’ve had some of the birthday cake we picked up at the bakery in town along the coast, it was decorated with marzipan and roses, I tidy away 126the plates and scrape the leftover pieces of marzipan into the bin.

‘Are you going to ask Kristoffer too?’ Mum asks.

We look out the window. Kristoffer is sitting on the decking with his back to us, still with his phone to his ear, then he puts it back down and appears to be texting.

‘He’s still trying to get through to Marthe,’ I say. ‘But it doesn’t look like she’s picking up.’