Outside, the night air is so cold it takes my breath away. A razor-sharp wind cuts into my face and blows my hair about, tugging me in every direction. I head towards the ferry and rub my arms with relief – I’ll soon be at Mormor’s. She might pretend to tell me off, but I know she’ll be pleased I came. The thought of seeing her warms my insides. My grandma gives the best hugs.

‘Hei, fina!’ The boy again. I walk a little quicker but don’t turn around. There’s no one else. He must be shouting at me. A few more steps to the boat and I can hide inside.

Ouch.

Something slams against my leg. A metal post. I wince and rub my thigh. Definitely too dark for sunglasses. I snatch them off, annoyed, but without them I feel naked.

‘Hei! Beautiful girl!’ A hand on my shoulder. The boy jumps in front of me, his beer sloshing out on the wooden walkway. His grin vanishes, replaced by a look of horror, quickly followed by embarrassment. He throws up his hands and backs away. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ His friends see my face and howl with laughter.

I stand frozen to the spot and watch as they jostle each other onto the ferry. Is this what my life is going to be like now? Once the boys have boarded, I hurry towards the boat, the metal gangplank bouncing under my feet. At the top, I hold the door to steady myself and quickly step aboard.

I look for a dark corner where I can curl up and die, but raucous laughter from the bar persuades me to brave the upper deck. Even if it’s not well lit, there probably won’t be many people to stare. I grab the metal handrail and climb the steep stairway. Footsteps sound behind me. My pulse quickens. They’re too close, gaining on me.

‘Hei?’

I turn and see a tall man with a bushy grey beard. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. His weather-worn face crinkles into a smile as he jabs a thumb to his chest. ‘Olav.’

Relief washes over me. He lives on a farm a few miles from Mormor. I barely know him, but it’s wonderful to see someone I recognise.

He follows me up the remaining steps and stands next to me on deck. In his hand is a long metal box, the kind that holds a snooker cue or a rifle. We haven’t spoken before, though Mormor often chatted to him on our walks. He looks different: older and more stooped.

‘Ja, det e dæ. Marta!’

He says my name the Norwegian way, and speaks in the lilting, sing-song cadence I know so well – an accent Mormor shares but Mum has pretty much lost.