Mathilde tried to settle her body in the narrow bunk. To roll from her back to her side required planning, shifting with care, realigning herself. The only saving grace of the trip had been the possibility of solitude, the chance to go deep into her grief without the need to function, at least nominally, for the children. But the weight of their absence, loaded on top of her grief, threatened to crush her. Alone, she could have made the cabin a sanctuary, a grieving place where she could come all undone. But that damned woman would be here with her, and there was no choice but to breathe each other’s air and smell each other’s sour breath and broken wind.
Mathilde had put thought into avoiding Lillemor. Over dinner, watching her down her wine with enthusiasm, Mathilde surmised that the woman was likely to keep late hours, and decided she’d keep early ones. If she took herself to bed well before Lillemor, and rose before her, she could avoid conversation altogether. It was important not to let any notion develop of friendly chatter or schoolgirl confidences after lights out.
It was much later when Lillemor came in, though Mathilde was still trying to get comfortable. Hearing the rattle of the door handle, she shifted so she was facing the wall. Lillemor flipped on the light, sending a blaze through the cabin. In the moment of silence that followed, Mathilde held herself ferociously still. She heard Lillemor begin to undress and could follow the sequence of it with awful clarity: the fur coat, the dress, the shoes, the stockings, the silk slip, the underpants. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. Six weeks of this ahead of her. The whisper, slip, scuffle went on and on, how many layers was she wearing? And then there was the putting away, the opening of drawers, the clatter of hangers.
Mathilde had seen Lillemor’s luggage carried up to the cabin by a couple of muscular, jovial Norwegians. She had a big wardrobe suitcase and a number of smaller bags. Mathilde suspected she’d never planned to go mountaineering. She’d come to Cape Town in the height of summer with trunks of furs and mufflers, intending from the outset to take Mathilde’s place.
Mathilde could have groaned aloud with frustration. She’d have gladly given it to her, but once again she was under someone else’s power. Some man always had a say over her, without the softening effect of a marriage where she could convince, cajole or negotiate.
These wealthy women and their indulging husbands! Anton looked at his younger, glamorous wife the way a dog would – hungry, adoring, deferential. Lars and Ingrid were a well-oiled unit, running an empire of shipping and whaling and God knows what else. Lars was more powerful than her father-in-law, Ole, and of a newer generation, one not so afraid of women. Ingrid seemed more like his equal. But Mathilde was at the mercy of them all.
At last Lillemor finished her fussing around, switched off the light and settled herself in her bunk with a sigh. Mathilde slowly unclenched her tense muscles in the glorious dark, her only safety. The door rattled, startling her, but it was just the wind. Lillemor twisted and turned for a few minutes, finding the shape and heft of the bunk as Mathilde had, and then her breathing deepened, horribly close by. She exclaimed once, a kind of sleepy whimper, and then was silent.
The ship lifted beneath them, rising higher and higher, then peaking and pitching forward. Mathilde had never been on an ocean-going ship before the passenger liner that carried them to Cape Town and now they were heading into much wilder waters.
She thought of the children, concentrating on forming their image in her mind, recreating their features until she could almost see them standing in the cabin in front of her. She’d been unable to recall Jakob’s face and his voice within just a few weeks of him going to Venezuela and she’d wondered if this failure to keep him alive in her heart had contributed in some way to his death. She vowed she wouldn’t forget the children’s faces or the sounds of their voices. She’d recall them every hour of every day, imprint them upon herself.
Mathilde decided to imagine she was sailing in their direction, as if the children had cast a silver fishing line into the sea and were reeling her in. There would be no north and south. She would set her journey instead to the pole point of her children and sail to her own compass, her path laid down clear and straight across the sea, simply a distance to be travelled until she was with them again.
She’d have to be careful now and not show weakness. Lars acted for her parents-in-law and if they dreamed of taking her children, he’d help them. Mathilde had wanted nothing more than to hide herself away but she saw now it wouldn’t do. Her children may already have been taken from her. She had to start thinking in terms of winning them back, even before fully understanding she’d lost them.
She hadn’t missed the look of irritation that had crossed Ingrid’s face at the Cape Town dock when Lars refused to let Mathilde disembark. It had hurt, but more than that, it showed there was no past loyalty that Mathilde could rely on. She was alone in this battle. Her casual friendship with Ingrid from past years meant nothing, and Lillemor was a woman willing to do anything to get her way. The only person who’d shown her real kindness so far was Hjalmar.
The ship rose and fell slowly, tracing the arc of a swell, and Mathilde realised the movement was somehow reassuring. Rocked in the cradle of her bunk, heading home. She moved her feet until they were pressing up against the bunk’s end, braced herself and then surrendered to the ship’s motion. She gave up all resistance, letting it carry her. The feeling was somehow familiar, but she couldn’t place it. It wasn’t until she was on the lip of sleep, dropping down the face of it, that she remembered. Like sex, bracing herself on Jakob’s body, letting the movement carry her, recognising it as a bigger force than herself. She’d forgotten what it was like.