cabin.
‘Thank you for the money,’ she said.
‘Money is a good way of helping the word of God to fruition,’ said Forsman. ‘A bit of travel money won’t do you any harm.’
He stroked her awkwardly on the cheek, then left the ship on the gangplank which swayed noticeably under his weight.
The whole ship seemed to lean on one side as it bade farewell to its owner.
16
NINE HOURS LATER, on 23 April 1904, the steamship
Lovisa
weighed anchor and set off for Perth.
The ship sounded a farewell with its foghorn. Hanna stood by the rail aft, not far from her cabin, but had the feeling that she was still standing down there, on the quay.
She had left a part of herself behind. She didn’t know who she now was. The future – uncertain, unknown – would reveal that to her.
She stood behind her cabin, under a projecting roof, and looked down at the swirling foam whipped up by the propeller. Drifting snow, she thought. Now I’m on my way to a world where it never snows, where there are deserts, and the dry sand whirls around in temperatures that are beyond my comprehension.
Suddenly the saw that the mate was standing beside her. Looking back, what she first noticed about him were his fingernails. They were clean and neatly cut, and she recalled how Elin used to sit crouched over her father’s nails, devoting endless effort and tenderness to her efforts to make them neat and clean.
She wondered who cut the third mate’s nails. She understood from something Captain Svartman had said that Lundmark was unmarried. Svartman had also asked her if she had a fiancé waiting for her to return home. When she said she hadn’t, he seemed to be pleased. He had muttered something about preferring that not too many of his crew had close family connections.
‘In case anything happens,’ he had added. ‘All the sea offers us is the unexpected.’
Lundmark looked at her with a smile.
‘Welcome aboard,’ he said.
Hanna looked at him in surprise. It was Forsman speaking. Lundmark had imitated his voice with astonishing accuracy.
‘You sound like him,’ she said.
‘I can if I want to,’ said Lundmark. ‘Even a third mate can have a shipowner’s voice hidden away inside him.’
A distant call from the bridge cut short their conversation. The black smoke from the funnels was sinking down on to the deck. She had to turn away to prevent it from making her eyes hurt.
Hanna had a fifteen-year-old boy by the name of Lars to help her with the preparation of food. He was also sailing for the first time. He was an orphan, and scared stiff. When he shook hands with her, she could feel how he was ready to snatch his hand away from her if she were to squeeze it too tightly.
Captain Svartman had asked for pork and brown beans this first day of the voyage.
‘I’m not superstitious,’ he’d said, ‘but my best voyages have always started with my crew being fed with pork and beans. There’s no harm in repeating what has already proved itself to be a good thing.’
In the evening, when she had made all the necessary preparations for the next morning’s breakfast and sent the mess-room boy to bed, she went out on deck. They had now left the archipelago behind them, and were heading southwards. The sun was setting over the forests on the starboard side.
All at once Lundmark appeared by her side again. They stood there together, watching the sun as it slowly vanished.
‘Starboard,’ he said without warning. ‘There’s a reason for everything. It’s an odd word, but it means something even so. Star has nothing to do with stars, it comes from “steer”. In the old days a helmsman would stand with a steering oar in the aft of the ship, and he would have it on his right because then he could use his right arm to move it, and a man’s right arm is usually stronger than his left. So the right-hand side was called “steerboard”, and that gradually changed into “starboard”.’
‘What about “port”?’ she
‘Thank you for the money,’ she said.
‘Money is a good way of helping the word of God to fruition,’ said Forsman. ‘A bit of travel money won’t do you any harm.’
He stroked her awkwardly on the cheek, then left the ship on the gangplank which swayed noticeably under his weight.
The whole ship seemed to lean on one side as it bade farewell to its owner.
16
NINE HOURS LATER, on 23 April 1904, the steamship
Lovisa
weighed anchor and set off for Perth.
The ship sounded a farewell with its foghorn. Hanna stood by the rail aft, not far from her cabin, but had the feeling that she was still standing down there, on the quay.
She had left a part of herself behind. She didn’t know who she now was. The future – uncertain, unknown – would reveal that to her.
She stood behind her cabin, under a projecting roof, and looked down at the swirling foam whipped up by the propeller. Drifting snow, she thought. Now I’m on my way to a world where it never snows, where there are deserts, and the dry sand whirls around in temperatures that are beyond my comprehension.
Suddenly the saw that the mate was standing beside her. Looking back, what she first noticed about him were his fingernails. They were clean and neatly cut, and she recalled how Elin used to sit crouched over her father’s nails, devoting endless effort and tenderness to her efforts to make them neat and clean.
She wondered who cut the third mate’s nails. She understood from something Captain Svartman had said that Lundmark was unmarried. Svartman had also asked her if she had a fiancé waiting for her to return home. When she said she hadn’t, he seemed to be pleased. He had muttered something about preferring that not too many of his crew had close family connections.
‘In case anything happens,’ he had added. ‘All the sea offers us is the unexpected.’
Lundmark looked at her with a smile.
‘Welcome aboard,’ he said.
Hanna looked at him in surprise. It was Forsman speaking. Lundmark had imitated his voice with astonishing accuracy.
‘You sound like him,’ she said.
‘I can if I want to,’ said Lundmark. ‘Even a third mate can have a shipowner’s voice hidden away inside him.’
A distant call from the bridge cut short their conversation. The black smoke from the funnels was sinking down on to the deck. She had to turn away to prevent it from making her eyes hurt.
Hanna had a fifteen-year-old boy by the name of Lars to help her with the preparation of food. He was also sailing for the first time. He was an orphan, and scared stiff. When he shook hands with her, she could feel how he was ready to snatch his hand away from her if she were to squeeze it too tightly.
Captain Svartman had asked for pork and brown beans this first day of the voyage.
‘I’m not superstitious,’ he’d said, ‘but my best voyages have always started with my crew being fed with pork and beans. There’s no harm in repeating what has already proved itself to be a good thing.’
In the evening, when she had made all the necessary preparations for the next morning’s breakfast and sent the mess-room boy to bed, she went out on deck. They had now left the archipelago behind them, and were heading southwards. The sun was setting over the forests on the starboard side.
All at once Lundmark appeared by her side again. They stood there together, watching the sun as it slowly vanished.
‘Starboard,’ he said without warning. ‘There’s a reason for everything. It’s an odd word, but it means something even so. Star has nothing to do with stars, it comes from “steer”. In the old days a helmsman would stand with a steering oar in the aft of the ship, and he would have it on his right because then he could use his right arm to move it, and a man’s right arm is usually stronger than his left. So the right-hand side was called “steerboard”, and that gradually changed into “starboard”.’
‘What about “port”?’ she
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