The Last Boat Home Read Online Free Page A

vessels used to offload their cargo. Bursts of salt air scrubbed Else’s face as the curve of the mountain eclipsed the town. She checked her watch and her stomach pinched. She hoped her father would be in a fit state when she got home. At breakfast that morning, his breath had been foul with the onions he chewed to mask the stink of the homebrew. She knew all about the distillery he kept hidden in the boathouse. He had visited it several nights that week.
    The ferry passed from one fjord into the next, sailing by islands scabbed with lichen and reefs that lurked at the surface like aspiring icebergs. In the distance, the Reiersen shipyard swelled. Its cranes pierced the sky as the boat swayed closer, until warehouses and construction sheds separated from the drab blur behindits empty graving dock. The shipyard sprawled on the waterfront, facing the opposite shore where the ferry put in. Else scrambled onto the public pier and across the road, where she had hidden her father’s bicycle behind an oak tree. Her wheels sprayed dirty fans behind her as she set off down the zigzag of the track. Under her breath, she prayed that Pastor Seip would be late.
    When she reached the farmhouse, her ears were buzzing. She left the bike behind the milking barn and ran inside. Her mother was in the kitchen, her apron flapping as she pivoted between the oven and her pots. Beside her, her father belted out instructions.
    ‘That goddamned fish has to come out now !’
    Else moved to the sink to wash her hands.
    ‘You’re late,’ said her mother.
    ‘Where have you been?’ Her father’s eyes were tinged with blood.
    ‘The ferry didn’t come,’ Else said.
    ‘Pastor Seip will be here any minute,’ he said. ‘Go and clean yourself up.’
    After changing into her Sunday dress, Else raced down the stairs and began to wipe the dinner table.
    ‘The potatoes! The potatoes!’
    Her father hooted from the kitchen as she carried through a tablecloth still warm from the clothes line and shook it over the polished wood. The good plates were stacked in a high cabinet. Else climbed onto a chair to retrieve them.
    ‘The butter! It’s burning!’
    A layer of dust had settled on the top dish. She rubbed it off with the hem of her dress and set a place at the head of the table for Pastor Seip. She saw him through the window stepping over the vegetable patch in the yard.
    ‘He’s here,’ she called.
    Her warning sent her parents scurrying into the hallway. They consulted their reflection in the mirror, smoothing stray hairs intoplace and dabbing foreheads with their shirtsleeves. Her mother opened the door just as the minister’s fist was poised to knock.
    Dinner was, by all accounts, a success. Pastor Seip doused his potatoes in melted butter, which floated on his plate like an oil spill. He polished off the ling he had been served and helped himself to seconds.
    ‘Very nice,’ he muttered afterwards, suppressing a burp behind his knuckles.
    ‘We’ll take coffee and cake in the Best Room,’ Dagny said. She rose from the table and led the way across the hall to the pride of the house.
    It was the first time they had used the Best Room since Dagny had hosted last month’s ladies’ luncheon, although Else had helped her mother dust its corners several times since. Now, sitting opposite Pastor Seip on a low-slung bench, she felt the chill that the room imparted to all special occasions. The pine walls were painted a midnight blue that drained the warmth right out of the air. Lace curtains filtered the sunlight, scattering it over the furniture like shards of glass.
    Pastor Seip’s stomach folded over his thighs as he leaned forward for his coffee cup. Else watched its progress to his lips, thinking how delicate it looked in his long fingers.
    ‘I hear the catch has been meagre,’ said the minister to Johann and took a slurp from his cup.
    The china had been a wedding gift from Dagny’s brother, Olav, a sea captain whose merchant ship had