‘A terrible business, terrible.’ Bertha Sutherland shook her head, clasping both of my hands in hers. ‘To think it was Charlie Mackay all along. I’m so ashamed of the way I behaved, Hedda. Will you forgive me?’
I could tell that the postmistress meant every word. Her face was red, her eyes bright with unshed tears. For a moment, a small, mean part of me thought about telling her, No, I do not forgive you. You suspected me of being the spy with no evidence whatsoever.
But what would be the point? Now my name was cleared, I’d be staying in Fiskersay for the foreseeable future, and it would be a long, lonely time if I stopped speaking to Bertha and the rest of the islanders just to make a point. The other women in the shop were watching us, wearing similar apprehensive expressions to Bertha’s.
‘Thank you, Bertha,’ I forced myself to say. ‘I accept your apology.’
Bertha hugged me, sniffling. I patted her back, feeling a mixture of awkwardness and relief.
‘I’m sorry too, Hedda,’ someone else said, and soon they were all gathered around me, voicing their regret at their behaviour and indignance at the actions of Charles Mackay.
After a day locked up in the police station, he had been taken off the island in handcuffs this morning, a great, jeering crowd gathering at the quay to see him off. I had been there too, although I had not joined in, and as I watched Flight Lieutenant Jackson march him on board the boat I knew I was finally seeing the real Charles Mackay: a twisted and bitter coward, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast as he shuffled up the gangplank, not looking at anyone. As I’d wondered briefly what would happen to him, I suddenly remembered the people the Germans had shot in the street in Kirkenes. Would Charles be executed for what he had done? A shudder rippled down my spine, and I’d turned and walked away, leaving the crowd behind.
Now, when I went to pay for my purchases, Bertha only took a few of my coupons, and added some extra flour. I felt more uncomfortable than ever about it all, but I thanked her and hurried out of the store, glad to be in the fresh air again.
As I walked back to the Sinclairs’ croft, I paused to gaze at the vast, rounded shape of the Haug, with its two metal towers on top, and replayed the events of two nights ago in my mind. What had happened up at the ruined cottage was a blur of fear and adrenalin. After Charles fired the gun I’d thought, at first, that Bill was dead; I’d been so relieved when he got up again, I could have cried.
But it was that moment in Hut 1 that loomed large over everything else: the moment after we had finally revealed to each other the worst moments of our lives. I couldn’t forget the way Bill had looked at me. I kept trying to tell myself that I had imagined it, but I knew I had not. I had not imagined the heat that flashed through me as our gazes connected, or that dizzy, swooping sensation I’d felt, as if the ground suddenly tipped away from underneath me. It was as if Bill had looked right into my soul and seen not the timid girl who’d let herself fall in love with Magnus and tried so hard to believe that he loved her back, or the scared woman who had married Anders because she had fallen for the person he’d pretended to be and then, when it was too late, couldn’t see any other future for herself and her child, but the Hedda I wanted to be: a woman at peace with herself and her choices, who could let someone in and exist alongside them on an equal footing. I had never felt this sort of connection with anyone.
But I had called Bill min kjærlighet – my love – without even thinking. I had touched his face.
You fool. You have let yourself fall in love, I thought, clenching my hands into fists, despair bubbling up inside me. It was wonderful, and yet it was terrifying, too, because of what had happened the last time I let myself love someone. It didn’t matter if Bill had looked at me like that. It didn’t even matter that he felt the same way, although I was pretty certain he did. He was engaged to Rose – beautiful, glamorous Rose – and I was married to Anders. Even if I never returned to Norway and started a new life somewhere else, I would be shackled to him forever because of our wedding vows. In the eye of the law, I was his wife, his property. And that meant I would never wholly be able to give my heart to another person, no matter how much I longed to. I would never be able to remarry. After Magnus I had sworn I would never be a willing party to an affair ever again – and that included my own.
Unless you went back once the war is over, I thought suddenly, and asked Anders for a divorce.
I gazed at the radar station towers, turning this new idea over in my mind. When Charles had pointed the gun at me the other night, I had been convinced my luck had finally run out. I had felt the same during mine and Eirik’s flight from Kirkenes; when we were caught by the Wehrmacht officer I’d had to kill, and during that terrifying journey to Shetland.
Yet the thought of facing my husband – of asking him to grant permission to dissolve our marriage – was more paralysing than any of that.
I’ve had enough of trying to be brave, I thought. I just want peace.
Then it is up to you to create that peace, a new voice in my head said. It sounded like me, but it was calm, rational, matter-of-fact. You cannot be Anders’ wife any more. He abuses you – he abuses your son. As long as you are married to him, he will have power over you no matter how far you try to run. You know there are no limits to that man’s cruelty. If you want to be truly free, you must divorce him. Then you can start again properly.
I dug my fingers into my temples as I remembered all the times when Anders had railed at me and said I was an unfit mother; that if I continued to cross him he would have Eirik taken away from me. I knew the voice was right. I could not – would not – do that to my son. Not when I had already sacrificed so much to keep him safe. I would not only be betraying the person I had become since arriving in Shetland. but I’d be betraying Eirik, too.
Of course, I had no idea how to go about getting a divorce – how long it would take or what it would cost. But there had to be someone, somewhere who could help me.
And after that? I felt my fingers begin to quiver against my skull. I truly had no idea. But I had my nursing qualification and the work I was doing here – perhaps I could ask Doctor Gaudie for a reference to take back with me to Norway.
A sudden wave of calm rolled over me as I realised I had no choice. I had to do this. I had to go back to Norway. And if my husband had survived the war, I had to be brave one last time, and face him.
I owed it to Eirik, and to myself, to break free of that bastard forever.