Ingrid glanced over at Ole, who was still standing there, and asked him if the crew had any blankets. He shrugged. Ingrid told the brothers to wait, walked over to Magnus, who was on the foredeck surrounded by a crowd of men, and asked him if he had any blankets. No, he said curtly, but shook his shoulders and adopted that blank expression which meant that he was not only searching for a solution, but would also find one.

“Try that bloody blacksmith again. We’ll wait.”

Ingrid scrambled ashore and ran in the direction of the village, caught up with the blacksmith and asked him if he could sell them some more blankets, rugs, sheepskins . . .

“Sell?” he said slowly, fixing his eyes on her.

“Yes, sell. We’re desperate.”

“You must be loaded.”

“No,” Ingrid said.

“How much will you pay?”

She told him she’d give the same amount as last time, per blanket per skin. He chewed on it. She increased the offer by half a krone, per skin. He smiled, turned and hurried up to the village. Ingrid trudged back, clambered aboard and went over to the brothers at the stern. All she could get out of them was that the two older boys had worked as carpenters with their father. She asked them how old they were. Sverre was twelve and Helmer ten. Ingrid had no more questions. Oh yes, she did, hadn’t it been hot down in the engine room?

“Yes.”

“And wasn’t it noisy?”

They looked at one another, as if considering whether this was worth answering and concluding it wasn’t. Ingrid poured the coffee grounds into the sea, watched them sink and disperse like ants across the green, sandy bottom, looked down into the mugs, but couldn’t think of anything else to say and led the boys into the galley, where the same youths as before were taking care of old Jadviga from Russia, who looked as though she couldn’t decide whether to fall asleep or stay awake. Ingrid asked if they had any more water.

“Yes, fresh water,” as much as she wanted.

She rinsed the mugs under the tap, looked around for a cloth that wasn’t there, put the mugs in the sink and asked them where they came from.

“Mehamn.”

“Was that burned down, too?”

“Yes.”

Ingrid wondered whether they were brothers, and where their parents were, what kind of work they had done, as if she had been set down on this earth to carry out a survey of people who had been driven out of their homeland, since nothing made sense inside herself, but before any answers were forthcoming – they didn’t look like brothers, more like friends, closer than any relatives – she saw through the porthole that the blacksmith was back on the quay. She ran to the prow.