Sophie's Run (37 page)

I brushed that thought aside determinedly. If they had made the effort to find me, and if they took the trouble of actually coming out here…if they really turned up, I would welcome them, and I would hear them out.

Perhaps Rachel and Dan only had this one encounter. Perhaps they were an item now. Either way, I could see now, with the benefit of time and distance and perfect hindsight, that they deserved to be heard; they were my best friends. Even though I had felt extremely betrayed and hurt, perhaps it wasn’t my place to feel thus.

I blushed deeply as I recalled my reaction. It all seemed so futile now, so silly, superfluous. I had totally overreacted. From where I was now, it didn’t seem important anymore. Living on this tiny island, in this very different environment with different needs and priorities and a down-to-earth outlook on life
had
done me good. I had regained a sense of perspective that I had lacked, so wrapped up in my make-believe London disasters.

I sighed. I guessed I would have a lot of explaining to do of my own, and quite a bit of apologizing.

Talking of! How would I ever apologize to Steve? How would I find words that would be adequate? Would he ever forgive me?

With that question, I reached a mental wall and found myself staring into space for quite some time. But once again, I reasoned, if he came, he would be ready to listen; and perhaps he would understand and forgive.

Naturally, I fell over my shopping as I left the house to go to Greetje’s for dinner. In my brave effort at reclaiming my home and my ensuing ruminations on life, friendship and forgiveness, I had completely forgotten that I had left the bags on the front steps. Cursing my forgetfulness, I stored the shopping as quickly as possible in the fridge. I had been running late
before
this unexpected hold-up, having had a long bath and an unscheduled nap, and I knew that dinner would be practically on the table by the time I would arrive at Greetje’s house. She was relaxed about many things, but when she set a time for dinner, she expected people to be there.

I pedaled like I had never pedaled before, taking at break-neck speed potholes that I couldn’t see properly by the meager light from my bike-lamp but falling off only once. I arrived in the nick of time, albeit sweaty and out of breath. Greetje’s fisherman husband Klaus, their two sons
and
their wives and young children were already at table, while Greetje was handling a big, steaming tureen full of an aromatic green vegetable stew. There was no time for idle chit-chat and, having my offers of help firmly declined, I made for the dinner table.

Sitting down expectantly between Klaus and Greetje’s empty chair, I eyed the dish suspiciously. Everybody else was full of high spirits and keen to tuck in, but I was feeling a little uncertain.

Grünkohl
had turned out to be curly kale, according to my trusty dictionary. I had heard of curly kale, of course, had even seen it in the supermarket once or twice, but couldn’t recall ever having eaten it. It smelled fantastic. My mouth watered and my tummy rumbled in anticipation. Greetje put a huge dish of traditional German fried potatoes on the table and we were ready to go.

Being the guest, it was my turn first. I was given an enormous helping of golden fried potatoes, a big ladle of
Grünkohl
, and two fat sausages. It all looked amazing. So far, so good.

That left the somewhat disconcerting issue of the
Pinkel
. I had looked that up as well, of course.

Pinkel
was a noun, meaning something like “snob” or “toff.” Now, I couldn’t really see that the German people would resort to boiling up and serving for dinner the snobs or toffs of the male species. So I had looked a little further down the page and encountered the verb associated with
Pinkel.

If anything, that was even more disturbing.
Pinkeln
meant “to pee.”

Nobody had noticed my hesitation. There was almost complete silence around the table as everybody else tucked in and even the kids were eating with gusto.

Now I had heard about some strange customs in my time but certainly they wouldn’t… they couldn’t…

Nah.

I speared a fried potato to get myself going before trying the
Grünkohl
. It was amazing. It was by far the best vegetable I had ever tasted in my entire life. Dark green, almost the color of a ripe olive, juicy, succulent, slightly tangy—

Oh God! I choked on my mouthful. Tangy.

Right on cue, Greetje smiled at me. “You haven’t tried your
Pinkel
yet,” she said encouragingly.

I hadn’t? I cleared my throat.

“What exactly is
Pinkel
?” I whispered.

“The sausage,” Greetje replied cheerfully, cutting off a fat slice of her own. Clear and fragrant juices were running out of it and quickly soaking into the fried potatoes.

Finally noticing my discomfiture, Greetje lowered her fork and looked at me inquisitively. Her eyes darted between my half-raised fork and my furrowed brow, and she burst out laughing. She laughed so hard that her whole body shook and she had to steady herself against the table. Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, she eventually managed to speak.

“You looked up ‘Pinkel’ in your dictionary, didn’t you?” she issued, valiantly fighting the urge to belly laugh.

I nodded, sheepishly.

She giggled compulsively again. Her family was mystified, their English not being quite as fluent as Greetje’s. Klaus spoke up, asking for an explanation, and Greetje rapid-fired her answer back at her assembled family. Within seconds, they were all exploding into hysterics, and Greetje was patting me on the arm to reassure me that their mirth was good-natured and that they were laughing with me, not at me. Even though I wasn’t quite sure yet what was so funny, I found myself drawn in by their hilarity and for a good few minutes, everybody was convulsing helplessly with great gales of laughter.

When eventually we all calmed down, I inquired as to the exact nature of
Pinkel.
Greetje speared another piece of sausage and waved it in my face.

“This,” she clarified exultantly, “this is
Pinkel
. It’s a type of smoked sausage with belly pork and oats and lots of herbs. No pee, though.”

I blushed again at my foolish assumption and made a big show of eating a fat piece of sausage. It was unexpected, quite grainy, but absolutely delicious.

“You cook the sausage with the cabbage, you see,” Greetje elaborated. “That gives the dish its fabulous flavor.”

I nodded, too busy chewing to waste any time on talking. Now that I had the taste of it, I couldn’t get enough of it. Everybody else got back to eating, too, and silence prevailed until we all had our fill. I had seconds, and feeling gross and greedy, I even had thirds.

When we were clearing up after dinner, Greetje raised the subject of the private detective man snooping around and asked me whether I was okay. I filled her in on the events of the rest of the afternoon and told her that I thought I was looking forward to seeing my friends again. Greetje looked at me with those kind and wise eyes of hers.

“Good,” she pronounced. “That is good that you feel that way. It makes me glad. It is time for you to make up with your life, and your friends.”

Her astute assessment brought a lump of emotion to my throat, and I swallowed hard. “Do you think they will come?” I asked, looking for affirmation.

“I should think so, don’t you?” Greetje replied, as I had hoped, while she was placing leftovers into little dishes ready to go in the fridge. “Why else bother?”

“That’s what I thought,” I conceded. “I guess now I’ll have to wait.”

The next few days passed in a blur of anticipation. I had allowed a day for the investigator to return to London and make his report, another couple of days for any travelers to make arrangements, and another day for them to actually get here. Therefore, four days after the appearance of Mr. Private Detective, I was braced for the big reunion. But the hours passed and the day drew to a close without incident. I felt a tiny stab of fear—had I miscalculated? Were they not coming?

Greetje didn’t bring the subject up again, but I knew she was watching and waiting with me, on standby for assistance if need be. By the following Monday, I was beginning to give up hope and, in unspoken agreement, the subject of my friends’ arrival was not discussed between Greetje and me. I felt a little bit hurt, but I also felt like perhaps I was getting my comeuppance. I was the one who had vanished. Why should they come running after me?

Or maybe
, my rational voice supplied,
they need a little bit of time to make arrangements.

As speculation was fruitless, I decided to carry on with my island life as best I could. The weather had changed dramatically, and a cold, steady wind was howling in off the North Sea night and day. The fishermen still went out, but they were watching the sky with frowns and expressions of concern. The weather forecast warned of a big weather front brewing out in the North Sea, bringing the potential for hurricane-style storms. The notion sent shivers of excitement through me. I was partial to a bit of natural drama, and there was nothing I liked more than the thought of a terrific storm. All within reason, of course—I didn’t want anyone to get hurt or anyone’s house or possessions to get damaged. But I loved the idea of wild, unbridled winds, of waves crashing against the beach and reaching up against the dunes in a foaming, primal, unbreakable rage, of dark skies and howling winds and torrential rains, brazened out in the safety of a warm and dry home, sitting by the fireside, perhaps by flickering candlelight, with hastily prepared thermos flasks of tea and marshmallows to toast on the fire. I had a very romantic notion of what made a good storm.

On the other hand, if the bad weather hit in earnest and disrupted the ferry, then my friends, if they were indeed on their way, wouldn’t be able to make it after all. They might be stranded out in Bensersiel for days on end. I prayed fervently that this wouldn’t happen.

“Hurry up, you guys,” I whispered on a Wednesday night before going to sleep. “Hurry up.”

I was woken at five a.m. by rain lashing against the window. Great gusts of wind rattled the frames and at times the entire cottage seemed to shake. I opened the curtains but the island was in darkness and I saw nothing but blackness. I didn’t think I had ever seen such blackness before. Leaving the curtains open, I returned to my bed, shivering half with cold and half with delicious anticipation. The storm was here.

I snuggled back under my duvet, savoring its warmth and feeling cocooned and safe. Snoozing on and off, I marveled at the force of nature. At six thirty, I heard the central heating clonk into life and gave a little sigh of relief; the electricity was still working, and I would be warm and dry, never mind the storm outside. Grudgingly, I got up and dressed and ventured downstairs to make myself a cup of tea and some breakfast. By the time I had to leave for school, the rain was falling more heavily than ever. The clouds were so low that it was barely possible to discern where land ended and sky began. Cycling would have been madness, so I walked. I had ferreted around in the storage cupboards downstairs and, lo and behold, found a bright yellow sou’wester with a big, sturdy hood and matching waterproof trousers, beautifully complemented by my own flowery wellies.

Half an hour later, I squelched into school feeling windswept and frozen to the bone. Most of the children and the teachers were already there, having been properly prepared for this kind of eventuality and consequently having left much earlier than usual. The corridors abounded with abandoned kids’ wellies. A weird “emergency” atmosphere prevailed, a proud “we won’t be beaten by a bit of rain.” The normal curriculum was suspended for the day, and the teachers divided their time between recalling emergency procedures for the kids and doing a bit of local history; tales of historic storms and shipwrecks kept the children fascinated through the morning.

I left at lunchtime and made my way to Greetje’s tea shop, eager to hear news of the weather and the ferry. Greetje was in high spirits. It appeared that she, like me, was partial to a good storm, and this one was going to be a whopper, a proper
Orkan
.

“This is nothing,” Greetje informed me cheerfully. “This is only the
Sturmwehen
… You know, how do you say…” She frowned, searching for a word. “What do you call it when a woman starts having a baby?”

I shook my head, confused. “I don’t know…labor? Contractions?”

“Contractions,
” Greetje pounced gleefully. “These are only like contractions. The proper event is yet to come.”

“It is?” Now that I found a frightening prospect. How much worse could it get?

“Yes,” she confirmed. “We’re all… How do you say again? Battening down the doors,” she tried.

“The hatches,” I corrected automatically.

“The hatches, then,” she repeated impatiently. “When the ferry goes again—”

“The ferry goes in this weather?” I interrupted, incredulous.

“No, of course not, silly.” Greetje paused in her sandwich making and laughed at me. “But later today, things will calm down for a while, I should think, and tomorrow morning, all being well, the ferry will make a couple of mercy dashes to Bensersiel for people trying to return home, and for provisions, food, that kind of stuff. There’s always the quiet before the storm and everybody uses it to get organized. Unless, of course, if there isn’t… In which case we’ll improvise.”