nor caring. He warmed to it by degrees, his voice thickening and growing louder, the obscenities coming more plentifully and with less and less meaning. After a time, he broke into foreign languages – German, English, snatches of French. Although she understood these, she gave no sign of caring or of resenting them. Thorsen grew more violent and less coherent. He shrieked at her, standing close by where she sat. But she showed only indifference, and although he raised his fists as if to strike her, he did not touch her.
At last his voice cracked and broke on the torrent of filth. He stood for a moment staring at her, his eyes wild, his face distorted with rage. Then, suddenly changing, he dropped to his knees beside the bed and put his head down on her knees. He wept, and she soothed him, talking to him in French, monotonously on and on.
----
Although some of the other men tried to persuade him to go ashore with them, Carling stayed on the
Kreya
. He went down into the forward hold to make sure that everything had been left in order by the French dockers, and stayed down there, resting his arms on one of the wooden stalls from which the horses had been taken, smelling the horses and the hay.
For him it was a childhood smell. He had been born on a farm in Fyn, the eldest of four sons of a small farmer. But it had been the seas that fascinated him, not the land, and when he was fifteen he had left, going first to Odense and then to Copenhagen. There had been no regrets. Even when, on account of Tove, he had thought of leaving the sea, he had not thought that he might have been mistaken in giving up farming. Tove would never have been a farmer’s wife.
But what would she have been – what had she been? The question, rising all unexpectedly through the quiet melancholy of his mind, pierced him again, and with a new twisting sharpness.
‘Tove!’ he cried aloud. ‘What was it? What should you have told me?’
The horses that were left champed at the straw. In his agony, Carling fled back again to childhood, bridging the years with that smell, those untroubled easy sounds. But his mind played traitor to him: he was in the big kitchen, a boy of five or six, unregarded, listening to the sound of the pot bubbling on the fire, and the slow, quiet talk of his elders.
‘Where?’
‘In the barn – the little barn.’
‘And how, then?’
‘With his belt.’
‘And with what reason?’
‘It’s not known. Her, maybe.’
‘In Hell – for her?’
‘No man knows another’s mind.’
‘But in Hell,’ his mother said. Her voice had in it wonder and dread. ‘We know that.’
Carling spoke aloud again, to the present, to the world where torment was ever at hand and hope a thin fugitive.
‘No!’ he cried. ‘That’s not true.’
A horse began to kick the planks that held it in, with steady, patient strength. Carling thought of Dublin; the answer was there. Next time she would speak. Next time he would know what it was she had not said to him – the only why that mattered in the world. He would not leave until she had spoken. He would learn the truth and, one way or another, he would find peace.
Chapter Five
The wind rose with the tide. It was Force 5 by the time the
Kreya
was clear of the harbour, and it rose steadily as they beat northwards up the Channel. It came from the south-west but there was no warmth nor softness about it. Cold squalls of rain soaked across the seas from time to time. The night was black, and apart from their radar eye they drove into it blindly.
On the bridge, Mouritzen said to Olsen:
‘Nasty enough. And it’s going to get worse?’
‘So they tell us. At any rate, we’re getting a lift from it. We’ll save oil on this leg, and a few hours.’
‘Yes. Have you had the hatch closed?’
Olsen shook his head, his lips pursed. ‘Not necessary. You can keep an eye on things from time to time.’
‘Yes, let the poor beasts have some air, while they can.’
Olsen raised his
At last his voice cracked and broke on the torrent of filth. He stood for a moment staring at her, his eyes wild, his face distorted with rage. Then, suddenly changing, he dropped to his knees beside the bed and put his head down on her knees. He wept, and she soothed him, talking to him in French, monotonously on and on.
----
Although some of the other men tried to persuade him to go ashore with them, Carling stayed on the
Kreya
. He went down into the forward hold to make sure that everything had been left in order by the French dockers, and stayed down there, resting his arms on one of the wooden stalls from which the horses had been taken, smelling the horses and the hay.
For him it was a childhood smell. He had been born on a farm in Fyn, the eldest of four sons of a small farmer. But it had been the seas that fascinated him, not the land, and when he was fifteen he had left, going first to Odense and then to Copenhagen. There had been no regrets. Even when, on account of Tove, he had thought of leaving the sea, he had not thought that he might have been mistaken in giving up farming. Tove would never have been a farmer’s wife.
But what would she have been – what had she been? The question, rising all unexpectedly through the quiet melancholy of his mind, pierced him again, and with a new twisting sharpness.
‘Tove!’ he cried aloud. ‘What was it? What should you have told me?’
The horses that were left champed at the straw. In his agony, Carling fled back again to childhood, bridging the years with that smell, those untroubled easy sounds. But his mind played traitor to him: he was in the big kitchen, a boy of five or six, unregarded, listening to the sound of the pot bubbling on the fire, and the slow, quiet talk of his elders.
‘Where?’
‘In the barn – the little barn.’
‘And how, then?’
‘With his belt.’
‘And with what reason?’
‘It’s not known. Her, maybe.’
‘In Hell – for her?’
‘No man knows another’s mind.’
‘But in Hell,’ his mother said. Her voice had in it wonder and dread. ‘We know that.’
Carling spoke aloud again, to the present, to the world where torment was ever at hand and hope a thin fugitive.
‘No!’ he cried. ‘That’s not true.’
A horse began to kick the planks that held it in, with steady, patient strength. Carling thought of Dublin; the answer was there. Next time she would speak. Next time he would know what it was she had not said to him – the only why that mattered in the world. He would not leave until she had spoken. He would learn the truth and, one way or another, he would find peace.
Chapter Five
The wind rose with the tide. It was Force 5 by the time the
Kreya
was clear of the harbour, and it rose steadily as they beat northwards up the Channel. It came from the south-west but there was no warmth nor softness about it. Cold squalls of rain soaked across the seas from time to time. The night was black, and apart from their radar eye they drove into it blindly.
On the bridge, Mouritzen said to Olsen:
‘Nasty enough. And it’s going to get worse?’
‘So they tell us. At any rate, we’re getting a lift from it. We’ll save oil on this leg, and a few hours.’
‘Yes. Have you had the hatch closed?’
Olsen shook his head, his lips pursed. ‘Not necessary. You can keep an eye on things from time to time.’
‘Yes, let the poor beasts have some air, while they can.’
Olsen raised his
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