The beach below the house was sand and rock with a small boat jetty of cemented boulder. The cement was crumbling, the boulders loose, and it was already half awash on the tide. I pulled the inflatable up on to higher ground, made fast the painter and then stood for a moment looking back at the voe and the trawler lying there, the ship, the house, the land-encircled water, everything so perfect. I was thinking of Jan Petersen then, wondering how he had acquired such a place. And a wife who would go to sea with him, stand by him through thick and thin. A refugee from another country. And I had started with so much, achieved so little. No matter that the ship was mortgaged, the house, too, probably. They were his. He had owned them. And now he was dead and I was going up to his house to make an agreement with his wife, sitting probably at that table in the window with the photograph of him and his father on their catcher.
I got out my pipe and filled it. But I didn't light it. I just stood there, holding it in my hand as though for comfort in that quiet remoteness of the darkening landscape. The moment between light and dark, just as night closes in, is a time of silence when the soul is touched by doubts. I had that feeling now, the past a nothingness, the future all uncertain — and myself not knowing, or even understanding, what I was doing here.
I put my pipe away and turned abruptly, walking up to the house and knocking on the door. I wanted to get this over and get to sea. Three months in the loneliness of command, seeing nothing but the same patch of sea and the ugly superstructure of a floating rig — three months of that should be enough to sort myself out. The sound of my fist on the door was loud in the stillness and the lamplight streaming out from the window on my right became a muted glow as the curtains were drawn. The sound of footsteps clacking on stone, then the door opened and she was there. But not as I had expected her, in the denim slacks and faded jersey I had become accustomed to. Now she was wearing a long dress and high heeled shoes, and her fair hair, limned by the light of an oil lamp on the chest behind her, fell to her shoulders.
I stood there for a moment, not saying anything, her appearance so unexpected. She had always seemed to me a sturdy, solid Norwegian, and Fuller's phrase, 'the legal owner', had fitted her exactly. 'Well, are you coming in or not?'
I went in slowly, feeling uncomfortable. 'I'm afraid I haven't changed.'
'Does it matter?' She was smiling as she closed the door.
'No, I suppose not.' I was staring at her as she turned into the lamplight, her long dress flowing and her eyes bright. This was the first time I had seen her with any make-up on. 'Takes a bit of getting used to.'
She laughed. 'Tonight I am celebrating.' And she added over her shoulder as she took me into the living-room, 'I've not had much to celebrate these last few years. But when I saw the Duchess coming in round the end of The Taing…' She stopped, turning and facing me. 'You will never know what that meant to me.' And then she asked me whether I had fed. 'I hope you haven't.'
'No, I've come straight ashore as you suggested.'
'Good. Because otherwise you would have to eat two meals.'
'It's not impossible.'
She laughed. 'You don't know what I've cooked.' Her teeth flashed white, her eyes sparkling. It crossed my mind that she was a widow now and flying some sort of flag, with the table laid for two, lace mats and rough-carved wooden candlesticks. And then she said, 'If Jan were here, how he would have enjoyed it. Don't you feel you deserve a celebration after all the work you have done? Now, take off your oilskins please and we will have a drink.'
She went into the kitchen, returning with glasses and a bottle. 'I found this when I am going through Par's things — it is aquavit, real live aquavit. I think it came with the ship from Norway and he kept it against some happy day.'
She was in a mood of strange elation, gripped by a sort of feverish belief that now the ship was back at her old mooring everything would be all right. 'You bring me luck,' she said, raising her glass, the too-wide mouth smiling at me. 'Skal!' And she tossed the drink back, her eyes on me, watching to see that I did the same.
'Are you trying to drink me under the table?' I asked as she refilled my glass.
'Maybe. I don't know.' She was laughing, but at herself I think, at the invitation in her eyes that she didn't bother to conceal. 'You haven't wished us luck.'
I got up then, remembering how formal Scandinavian ships' officers could be, and made a little speech. She clapped her hands, and after she had drunk, she put her glass down carefully, holding it cupped in her capable brown hands, her head a little bowed so that the fair hair cascaded over her face. 'I think we are very strange partners, you and I, neither of us knowing what we want of life or where we are going. All I know is what I feel inside me, that tonight is different — the start of something. But I don't know what.' She raised her head and looked at me questioningly. 'Don't you feel that?'
I shrugged. 'Maybe,' I said guardedly.
'I think for you also this is a new beginning.'
'What about that agreement?' I asked her.
'Have you thought about it?'
'No. I haven't had time. But I think we should discuss it now, while we are still sober.'
'There is nothing to discuss.' Her hand reached out to the bottle. 'Will you have another drink?'
I shook my head. 'Not now. When we've settled this maybe.'
'There is some wine to follow. What you would call plonk, I think. I bought it at the stores this morning. But now-' She filled my glass again. 'Now I think we have one last aquavit and drink to a partnership.' She picked up her glass, not looking at me, but staring down into the heavy pale liquor. 'You see, I have had time to think about it. There is no way that I can see to draw up a legal document between us that is of any use. I am the owner. You hold the mortgage. Either we are partners or one of us must find the money to buy the other out. How much money have you got?'
'Less than fifty pounds.'
'You see? You cannot buy me out. And I have nothing. I am living on borrowed money. So what is the point of an agreement?'
'I thought you didn't trust me?'
'I don't. Your head is too full of strange ideas — about people and politics and economics of the world. Oh, don't think I have been spying on you, but they tell me everything, about what you eat, how much you sleep, what you talk about. And there is the gossip here, too. You came to see Hilda Manson, making enquiries about your father. The house where he was born is just up the road, and there is that tablet in the church, so I know something about him.' She was looking at me, a gleam of humour back in her eyes. 'I think probably you suffer from some sort of a father complex.' Her hand reached out and touched my arm. 'Do not please be offended. I am an expert on this subject. Jan, you see, had a father complex, so that in a sense I married two men. Far Petersen… I always called him that, it is the Norwegian word for Father… Far was with us always, from the very beginning of our marriage. But it did not matter. I loved that dear gentle old man very much, even though he is so stupid about money.' She moved her hand to the bottle. 'So, you see, I know,' she said, filling my glass, but not her own, and then rising to her feet. 'Now we will eat. It is fish, do you mind?'
I shook my head.
'Fish to start with, then meat.' She bent towards me, laughing. 'Cheer up! It is not the end of the world that another person knows something about what is going on in your mind. For me, it gives you a certain integrity. And because of that you get no agreement, but a celebration dinner instead.' And she turned to go to the kitchen.