The Tenderness of Wolves (32 page)

He sounds more angry than anything else. As if he is thinking: what now?

‘You mean the woman on the ground … Elizabeth? Her husband is dead?’

Nesbit nods. ‘Sometimes I think we are cursed.’

It is muttered, half to himself. Then Nesbit abruptly turns round, effectively blocking the way down the corridor to Donald. However, he attempts to smile.

‘This is most unfortunate, but … why don’t you rejoin the others? Enjoy your breakfast … I need to speak to Mr
Stewart now, under the circumstances. We will join you later.’

Donald feels he has no option but to nod, and watches Nesbit’s back disappear round a corner. He hovers in the corridor, puzzled and disturbed. There was something almost obscene about the way Nesbit, and Stewart himself, brushed aside the grief of the others, as though they wanted nothing to do with it.

Instead of going back to the breakfast room, he returns to the courtyard, where snow has started to fall in a concentrated silence, as if to say, this is winter now; this is no joke. Its flakes are tiny and quick, and seem to come at him from every direction, blurring visibility over a few yards. Only the bereaved woman is still outside where she sits, rocking back and forth. The others are nowhere to be seen. Donald is angry with them for leaving her alone. The woman is not even wearing outdoor clothes, for heaven’s sake; just her indoor dress, which leaves her arms bare below the elbow. He goes up to her.

She is half-kneeling, rocking, silent now, her eyes wide but fixed on nothing, tearing her hair. She does not look at him. He is horrified to see the bare flesh above her moccasin mottled against the snow.

‘Excuse me … Mrs Bird.’ He feels awkward, but can think of no other way to address her. ‘You will freeze out here. Please come inside.’

She gives no indication that she has heard him.

‘Elizabeth. You were kind to me last night … Please come in. I know you are stricken. Allow me to help you.’

He puts out a hand, hoping she will take it, but nothing happens. Snowflakes cling to her lashes and hair, melt on her arms. She does not brush them away. Donald is struck, looking at her, by her thin face, her fine, almost English features. But then some half-breeds are like that, more white than Indian.

‘Please …’ He puts a hand on her arm, and suddenly the thin keening wail rises again. He draws back in alarm; such a strange, ghostly noise, like an animal. He loses courage. After all, what does he know about her, or her dead husband? What can he say to alleviate her pain?

Donald looks round, for assistance, or witnesses. There is no sign of movement through the dizzying snow, although, at a window opposite, he sees an indistinct figure, who seems to be watching.

He stands up–he has been squatting–and decides to find someone else. Perhaps a woman friend can persuade her to come inside; he does not feel it is his place to force or carry her. He is sure Jacob would know what to do, but Jacob is not here. He brushes the snow off his trousers and walks away from the widow, though he cannot go without glancing back at her. She is a black shape half-hidden by the snow, like a demented figure in a Japanese print. He has a happy idea: he will bring some of that coffee out to her–it is the least Nesbit can do. He is sure she will not drink it, but perhaps she will be glad he did so.

Line lies awake, fully dressed, staring at the curtainless window. Torbin and Anna are asleep beside her. She has said nothing to them, not trusting them to keep such a secret. Shortly she will wake them and get them dressed, making it seem like an adventure. They know nothing of her plans. She won’t tell them until they are well away from Himmelvanger. She wishes they had made the rendezvous earlier–everyone has been asleep for over an hour. An hour of travel wasted. She is uncomfortably hot, as she has put on layers of petticoats under two skirts, and all her shirts, one on top of another, until her arms look like tightly packed sausages. Espen will be doing the same. A good thing it is winter. She glances at the clock again, turns the hands to suit herself; she can’t wait any longer. She leans over and wakes her children.

‘Listen, we are going on a holiday. But it’s very important to keep really, really quiet. All right?’

Anna blinks sullenly. ‘I want to sleep.’

‘You can sleep later. Now we are having an adventure. Come on, put these on, quick as you can.’

‘Where are we going?’ Torbin seems more excited. ‘It’s dark outside.’

‘It’s nearly dawn, look–five o’clock. You’ve been asleep for hours and hours. We have to start early if we’re going to get there today.’

She tugs Anna’s dress over her head.

‘I want to stay.’

‘Ach, Anna.’ Barely five years old; where did she get to be so stubborn? ‘Put this dress on on top of that one. It’s going to be cold. And this way, there will be less to carry.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘South. Where it’s warmer.’

‘Can Elke come?’ Elke is Torbin’s best friend and Britta’s daughter.

‘Maybe later. Maybe some other people will come too.’

‘I’m hungry.’ Anna is not happy and wants everyone to know it. Line gives her and Torbin a cookie each, stolen for just this occasion, to buy their silence.

At ten to, she swears them to silence and listens in the corridor for a whole minute before pulling them after her. She closes the door on the room that has been their home for the past three years. All is quiet. The heavy bag containing food and the few personal items she cannot bear to leave bumps against her back. They cross the courtyard to the stable. It is black dark without a moon and she stumbles, cursing. Torbin gasps at the word she uses, but there is no time to worry about that. Line feels a thousand eyes on her back, the fear making her grip their hands too tight, until Anna whimpers.

‘I’m sorry darling. Here we are, look.’ She opens the door to the stable. Even darker, but warmer, with the sounds of the horses stomping in their hay. She pauses, listening for him.

‘Espen?’

He’s not here yet, but they are a few minutes early. She hopes he does not cut it too fine. They could have been riding away from here for the past hour, getting further from Himmelvanger with every step. She sits the children down in an empty stall.

Only a few minutes more, and Espen will be here.

*

She owns no watch, but has a fair idea of time passing by the numbness of her fingers and toes, and her fingers are like ice. The children fidgeted for a while, but now Anna has curled up and gone to sleep, and Torbin leans against her in a half-waking doze. It must be at least an hour since they came, and no one has come into the stable. At first she told herself: he’s always late. He can’t help it. Then she began to think, maybe he thought it was two o’clock, maybe he made a mistake. Then, as the hour crawled past and still no one came, she imagined that Merete had not been able to sleep, and that, what with the baby or an illness or something, had made it impossible for him to leave. Maybe he was lying awake, cursing and worrying about her.

And then, maybe he never intended to come at all.

She contemplates this bleak possibility. No. He would not let her down like that. Would not. Will not.

She will give him another chance–or shame him in front of them all. She shakes the children awake, more roughly than is necessary.

‘Listen. There has been a delay. It turns out we cannot leave tonight after all. We will have to go tomorrow night. I’m sorry …’ She cuts off their predictable complaints. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.’

She remembers using that phrase when telling them their father was never going to come back and they had to go and live in the middle of nowhere. ‘There’s no point complaining. That’s just the way it is.’

She swears them to secrecy–if they tell anyone about this, they won’t be able to go on holiday at all, and she has painted a picture of the warm south that appeals to both of them. Hopefully one day they might even be able to go there.

As she stands up and starts to usher them back to their bedroom–at least it is still dark–there is a movement near the door. She freezes, and the children freeze too, infected by her sudden fear. Then a voice:

‘Is someone there?’

For a moment–the shortest fragment of a second–she believes it is Espen, and her heart leaps. Then she realises the voice was not his. They have been discovered.

The man walks towards them. Line is immobile with the shock. What can she possibly say? It takes her another second to realise that he spoke English, not Norwegian. It is the half-breed, Jacob. She isn’t lost; not yet. He lights a lamp, and holds it in the air between them.

‘Oh, Mrs …’ Then he realises that he doesn’t know, or can’t pronounce, her name. ‘Hello Torbin. Hello Anna.’

‘I’m sorry if we have disturbed you,’ Line says stiffly. What is he doing here? Does he sleep in the stable?

‘No, not at all.’

‘Well then. Goodnight.’ She smiles and walks past him, then, when the children are walking in front of her across the yard, she turns back.

‘Please, it is most important to say nothing of this, to anyone. Anyone at all. I beg you … or my life is not worth living, I cannot stress this too much. Can I trust you?’

Jacob has put out the lantern, as if appreciating the need for secrecy. ‘Yes,’ he says simply. He does not even sound curious. ‘You can trust me.’

Line helps the children undress and watches as they fall asleep. She is too agitated to sleep. She pushes the bag behind a chair. She cannot bear to unpack, it seems too much like an admission of failure. In the morning she will have to strew clothes around to disguise it; hopefully that will fool anyone who chooses to look in. Oh, to go somewhere where she has her own house, with doors you can lock. She detests this lack of privacy; it chafes like a bridle.

At breakfast she is wary, showing her bland and cheerful mask to the community. She does not even glance towards
Espen until halfway through the meal, and then his head is bowed. He does not look in her direction. She tries to assess whether he or Merete looks particularly tired, but it is hard to tell. The baby is crying, so perhaps it has colic. She will have to bide her time.

It is afternoon when she gets her chance. He comes to her when she is feeding the chickens. One minute he is there, although she did not see him arrive. She waits for him to speak.

‘Line, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to tell you … Merete couldn’t sleep for hours and I didn’t know what to do.’ He is fidgeting, restless, his eyes everywhere but on her. Line sighs.

‘Well, it’s all right. I made up some story for the children. We will go tonight. One o’clock.’

He is silent for a moment.

‘Have you changed your mind?’

He sighs. She finds she is trembling.

‘Because if you have, I won’t go without you. I will stay, and I will tell everyone that I am carrying your child. I will shame you in front of everyone. In front of your wife and children. If Per turns me out, I don’t care. We might freeze to death. Your child will die and I will die. And you will be responsible. Are you prepared for that?’

Espen’s face goes pale. ‘Line, don’t say such things! That’s awful … I wasn’t going to say I wouldn’t come. It’s just hard, that’s all. What I have to leave behind … you don’t have to leave anything behind.’

‘Do you love her?’

‘Who? Merete? You know I don’t. I love you.’

‘Tonight at one, then. If Merete can’t sleep you will just have to think of an excuse.’

His face is resigned. It is going to be all right. It is just that he is a man who needs to be led, as many do.

*

Still, Line does not know how she gets through the remaining hours of the day. She cannot sit still, and observing her restless fidgeting as they sew their quilts, Britta says, ‘What’s the matter, girl? Ants in your pants?’ It is all Line can do to smile.

But finally, of course, finally it is one o’clock and they are on their way to the stables. As soon as they push the door closed, she can feel that Espen is there. His voice whispers her name in the dark.

‘It is us,’ she replies.

He lights a lamp and smiles at the children, who look at him with a doubtful, suspicious shyness.

‘Are you looking forward to your holiday?’

‘Why do we have to go in the middle of the night? Are we running away?’ This from sharp Torbin.

‘Of course not. We need to leave early, so that we can cover a good distance before it gets dark again. This is the way people travel in winter.’

‘Hurry up, no more chatter. You’ll see when we get there.’ Line is worried and her voice is sharp.

Espen straps their bags behind the saddles–he has already made the horses ready. Line feels a surge of fondness for the stout, slow-moving creatures; they do whatever is asked of them, without fuss or argument, even at one o’clock in the morning. They lead them outside, where the yard is so muddy their hooves make no noise. There are no lights in the whole of Himmelvanger, but they lead the horses to a copse of scrub birch, out of view of any windows, before Espen helps the children and Line onto the horses’ backs and then springs into the saddle behind Torbin. Line has a stolen compass in her hand.

‘We go south-east to start with.’ She looks up at the sky. ‘Look, there are stars. They will help us. We are going towards that one there, see?’

‘Aren’t you going to ask God to bless our journey?’
Torbin squirms round to look at his mother. He can be a pedantic boy at times, always wanting to be correct, and he has lived at Himmelvanger for three years, where you barely move without saying a quick prayer.

‘Of course. I was just about to.’

Espen reins in his mount, and drops his head. Mutters quickly, as though Per’s pious ears can pick up a prayer for miles around, ‘May the Lord God who is King of all there is in heaven and on earth, who sees and protects all, watch over us in our journey, guide us safe from dangers, and keep us on the right path. Amen.’

Line digs her heels into her horse’s sides. The dark mass of Himmelvanger grows smaller and smaller behind them. With the clear sky, it has got cold. Much colder than the night before. They have left just in time.