The knock at the door was so loud and sudden that Mathilde jumped. She’d been sitting in a trance, staring at her coffee as it cooled and a faint, milky film formed across its surface. She glanced around, animal-like, ready to scramble under the table. Sometimes people came around to the kitchen window to peer in and rap on the glass. She’d tested it herself, going outside and standing in the flowerbed to check. She was fairly certain her hiding place was safe.
The children needed no instruction now to ignore the door and stay silent in their rooms. The knock came again and she slid off her chair, crawled under the table and crouched. She could feel breadcrumbs and other nameless grit under her knuckles. She didn’t mind. It was like a cave, comforting, the light dimmer than in the rest of the kitchen. If she shifted onto her bottom and leaned her back against the solid leg of the table, she could sit there for hours. Why not? Why sit upright in a chair, anyway? Under the table, where a wounded animal might creep, felt like the right place for her. There were no expectations under there and no scrutiny.
For a third time, the heavy knock came and a man’s voice called out, ‘Anyone at home?’
Mathilde tilted her head, trying to recognise the voice. From down the hallway came footsteps and she saw Ole’s shoes stop at the kitchen door.
‘There’s someone here, Mama,’ he said in a dangerously loud voice.
Mathilde gestured at his feet to go back to his bedroom but they stayed firmly planted. She leaned across and twisted her neck so she could look out from under the table and see his face. His arms were crossed and he stared down at her.
‘Go back to your room,’ she mouthed.
He turned, but in the opposite direction, and began walking up the hallway towards the front door. Mathilde could feel the vibration of each step, tiny shivers that ran through the floorboards and into her body through her hands and feet, the points where her weight was concentrated. She was trembling, though whether from the crouch, or real terror at what might be waiting at the door, she couldn’t tell. Sweat started to break out on her skin.
Ole’s footsteps stopped at the door. ‘Who’s there?’ he called in his high voice.
‘Hans Lund,’ came the answer. ‘Is your mother home?’
Mathilde thought frantically. The name seemed distantly familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She willed Ole to say no and the man to go away, but she heard the squeak of the key in the lock and the door’s protesting groan as her son dragged it open. It felt as if the whole world rushed in on the draught.
‘Could you wait a moment?’ she heard Ole say, and then his footsteps retraced their path down the hallway. His brown lace-up shoes halted in the kitchen doorframe.
‘Mama, there’s a man with two fish at the door,’ he said, and without waiting for a reply the feet disappeared in the direction of his bedroom.
Mathilde felt a flash of rage. She’d punish him, afterwards, and he wouldn’t dare disobey her again. She had an image of caning his bottom, the way his father had done after some serious transgression, and the image was so vivid and satisfying, it wasn’t until the man at the door cleared his throat in an attention-getting cough that Mathilde shook her head and crawled out from under the table, suddenly afraid he would walk down the hallway and catch her there.
‘I’m coming,’ she called, stumbling a little over the words as she bent and brushed the crumbs from her knees and hands where they had made strange dents in her skin. She ran a hand over her hair and it felt matted, like a dog’s. She wondered if she’d brushed it that day, or the past one. A man with two fish. Shouldn’t take a minute.
The hallway seemed infinite, the daylight streaming in and hurting her eyes. The man-shaped silhouette provided a welcome shadow against the glare, so that by the time she reached the doorway and the shape materialised into a big blond man in a fishing jumper, Mathilde realised she’d been staring at him. He was freshly shaven and his eyes were some light shade of sea.
‘Mrs Wegger?’ he said. ‘Forgive me just arriving but I have something for you.’ He extended a parcel with the wrapper pulled back. Two trout glistened. ‘I had so many, and Mrs Christensen thought you might like some.’
‘Did she send you?’ Mathilde asked.
‘No, that is, I asked her. That’s all. I brought them myself.’ He offered them again and this time Mathilde gathered her wits and took the parcel.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and took a step back. He stood, looking up at her from the step, his cap in his hands, and she wished he would go. The silence was becoming awkward when she heard a clatter in the hallway behind her.
‘Hello,’ Aase said, poking her head around Mathilde’s skirt. ‘I’m Aase. I’ve just put the kettle on.’
‘Well, aren’t you a clever young lady?’ he said, leaning forward. He straightened again and looked at Mathilde.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ she asked, when it was becoming rude not to.
He ignored the uninviting tone of her voice. ‘That would be most kind,’ he said, stepping forward.
She led the way to the kitchen. Ole had dragged a chair across to the high cupboard. He was standing on it holding one of the best cups and saucers, and for a moment as he turned to face her, she saw the look of entreaty upon him, a look that he must have worked hard not to show her before. For the past year his face had been a mask of determination and she’d forgotten his vulnerability. The reminder of it sliced into her.
She turned. Hans Lund, whoever he was, was standing in the kitchen doorway, clutching his cap and looking as desperately uncomfortable as she felt. What possessed him to come into the kitchen of a grieving widow to try to make small talk? Aase was behind him, her face alight. Mathilde put the fishy parcel down on the sink. She’d have to remember how to cook trout, and the task seemed overwhelming.
‘How do you take your coffee, Mr Lund?’ she asked.
‘Black, sugar.’
Mathilde gestured to a chair and Hans sat down. The children’s speed and activity was shocking. She stood, surrounded, as they rushed to and fro with cups and spoons and napkins. Steam began to rise from the kettle.
‘Would you like me to fillet them?’ he asked.
Mathilde turned her body away from his and concentrated on pouring the boiling water into the coffee pot, smelling the sharp scent of it. The steam rose into her face and she hoped it was that making her eyes water, and not the simple offer of help from another human being. She couldn’t do it, not yet. If this big man with his work-worn hands started to fillet the trout in her sink, his knife would slice through the straining stitches that kept the remnants of her life together, and the whole lining would fall apart, the innards gushing out like the viscera of a fish, and she would never get it packed away neatly again.
‘There’s no need,’ she said, when she could trust her voice. ‘I’ll bake them whole.’
‘Very good,’ he said.
She took the coffee pot to the table and set it down in front of him. ‘Forgive me, Mr Lund; it’s been a difficult time,’ she said. ‘Have we met before? Should I know you?’
His face fell a little. ‘I knew your husband, God rest him. You and I have met a few times at church.’
And what are you doing here now? she wanted to ask, but instead poured out the coffee, set the cup and saucer in front of him and pushed the sugar bowl towards him. Aase and Ole watched as he spooned sugar into his cup and stirred.
He looked up and blinked under the intensity of their stares. ‘I know it must have been hard and I thought I should call on you. It gets lonely over winter.’
‘But it’s spring now,’ Aase said.
‘I thought you might be ready for some company,’ Hans said.
Mathilde was filled with a sudden weariness that made her want to lay her head on the table in her arms. It was too soon: couldn’t he see that? And it would always be too soon. She’d never be ready to have a man come into her kitchen and sit there sipping coffee, appallingly alive, while she was finding it harder and harder to recall Jakob’s face. The sound of his voice was long gone, having slipped out of her grasp the way a dream does upon waking.
Hans took a few great gulps of coffee and stood up abruptly. ‘I mustn’t keep you,’ he said. ‘I’ll be on my way.’
The children crowded out into the hallway in his wake and by the time Mathilde had gathered her wits they were at the front door. She followed them and reached the door as he went down the steps. ‘Thank you for the fish,’ she said.
‘Pleasure.’ He bobbed his head. ‘Mrs Wegger, could I call on you again?’
She wanted to snap ‘No!’ and shut the door, but before she could speak Aase said, ‘We’re making a cake tomorrow.’
‘Very well,’ he said, putting on his cap. ‘I’ll look in tomorrow. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ the children chorused. Mathilde watched him turn away, watched the set of his shoulders as he walked down the path and wondered if he was smiling. She’d find out who’d sent him, she decided, and give them a piece of her mind.