The Journey Home: A Novel (3 page)

I stood up but hesitated when I smelled the cigar smoke wafting to me from the study and heard my employer say aloud: “She’s taken her pills today.”

“Christmas is here!” came the cry from upstairs again. “Let’s light the candles, it’s so dark in here . . .”

I tried to walk to the door but my legs were as leaden as the pages of the newspaper. Then suddenly
his
voice intruded in the dream for the first time:

“Then Herr Himmler said to me . . .” Repeating with more emphasis: “Then Herr Himmler said to me . . .”

“To me, to me, to me,” said the echoes in my head and I put my hands over my ears. Then the mistress’s voice came again: “It’s far too dark in here!”

Filled with trepidation, I closed my eyes as if escaping into myself. When I opened them again I was in pitch darkness, unable to see my hand in front of my face. As before, I couldn’t move either hand or foot but now I was lying on my back and seemed to be in his bed down in the basement. He was lying on top of me, I could feel his breath on my face and his hands up my skirt. I tried to struggle but couldn’t move, tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound. When he entered me, I was jolted awake, trembling, in my chair in the games room.

I don’t know if I was aware of my surroundings; all my attention was taken up by somebody crying out repeatedly. It was a terrible sound, like a woman in pain. She wasn’t far off, perhaps in the next room. I leaped to my feet and fortunately found the key ring straightaway in my apron pocket. Dashing out into the corridor, I headed toward the sounds, which grew louder with every step, stuck my master key in the door of the room and burst in.

For various reasons I find it difficult to describe the next few minutes. All the same, I’m going to try to explain what I thought I saw, as briefly as possible, since there’s no point in spinning out the story.

Her hands were tied to the bedstead but I couldn’t see her face, which was hidden by the man thrashing away between her legs. He jerked her back and forth like a madman, his buttocks lathered with sweat, groaning horribly. Without waiting to see more I leapt forward, seizing him by the hair. We rolled off the bed, colliding with the bedside table and knocking a vase of flowers to the floor. Shrieking with terror, the woman freed herself from her bonds and, with even louder screams for help, grabbed a pillow and clutched it against herself. The man struggled dazed to his feet and when I finally saw his face I was brought up short. His expression showed neither violence nor anger, only astonishment and fear. It was then that I realized I had made a mistake.

I rushed out of the room, not stopping until I had reached my bedroom and locked the door. Oh, the embarrassment! The humiliation! At first I paced up and down, checking over and over again that the door was locked, then finally dropped into a chair in the corner and broke down.

In my headlong flight into hiding I seem to remember passing Miss Halsey somewhere in the main house. I also recall her asking, “What’s going on?” but didn’t answer. I suspect it was she who fetched Anthony, explaining that I was in a state about something. Anyway, he asked no questions when I finally let him in after he had waited a long time outside the door.

The guests I had burst in on turned out to be a couple from Germany on a holiday. They’d already spent two nights with us and had intended to stay for a third. Unsurprisingly, they decided to cut short their visit and left later that day. I took to my bed for the next forty-eight hours.

Anthony told me that he had refused to accept any payment from them, either for accommodation or food. I heard him out in silence and wasn’t inclined to raise any objections.

When I woke up last night my thoughts turned to Mrs. Wakefield. Sean Truelove (poor boy being saddled with a surname like that!) had started talking about truth and lies. Why, I can’t remember. He posed the following question: “If a sum of money is stolen from someone who didn’t know he had it in the first place, has he really lost anything?” Continuing: “If someone tells another person a lie in order to save him from disappointment, has he done anything wrong?”

“For example?” asked Mr. Wakefield, who obviously believed Sean was getting a bit too philosophical for his own good.

“For example,” he expanded, “if a man cheats on his wife (incidentally, isn’t it strange the way men seem to think they have the monopoly on adultery?) but hides it from her, isn’t he in fact doing her a favor, since the truth would only hurt her?”

This was an awkward moment, even for Sean himself once he realized how inappropriate his example had turned out to be.

Everyone—except Mrs. Wakefield, of course—knew about her husband’s infidelities. Anthony had once come across him having a bit of fun with one of the chambermaids who worked here for a couple of summers. If I remember correctly they were caught in the act in room 12. I could see the conversation was making Anthony uncomfortable; he stood up and opened the window to let out the cigar smoke, commenting on the weather, if I remember right, and pointing out the moon in the east. When I woke up last night I myself felt as if Truelove had somehow brought us all to the brink of a precipice in his stupidity, though not from any malicious intention.

There she sat smiling blithely beside her husband while Anthony pointed out the moon again and Sean tried to wriggle out of his own trap without giving away the truth.

“So, it’s probably better not to know too much,” I heard him stammer, and stored his comment away in my memory, as I can’t deny that my life would have turned out differently had I left alone certain things I was not supposed to know.

Sometimes I can’t help thinking there’s a look of my father about Anthony. I noticed it yesterday evening when the girls had finished tidying up and Anthony sat on a stool by the kitchen fire with one cheek illuminated and the other in shadow. He appeared pensive and though he faced the window I didn’t think he was looking at anything in particular; after all, it was dark outside. At that moment he reminded me of my father when he used to sit in the evenings at his desk in the dispensary that opened off his surgery, smoking his pipe and reading a paper or magazine, or whiling away the time by keeping a diary. When I couldn’t get to sleep I used to creep down to him. I’d go into the surgery, and pushing the dispensary door a little ajar, poke my head through the gap and plead with my eyes to be allowed in.

“Disa, Disa dear. Are you still awake?” he’d ask, smiling. Then I’d run to him and climb on to his lap where he would pat my head as I snuggled up close.

“There, there, sweetheart, close your eyes and think of something nice,” he’d say, and shortly afterward I’d be asleep.

They both have the same clear eyes and high brow, and a hint of sadness lurking in their smiles. When I was a child I thought it was weariness but now when I look back and picture him in his chair at the dispensary desk I think it was sadness. Of course, he was tired too; the life of a district doctor on the shores of the Arctic Ocean was one of endless drudgery. My sister Jorunn later said that he had watched too many people die without being able to do anything. Perhaps there was some truth in that.

Anthony seemed pensive. When he noticed that I had come into the kitchen he smiled at me and asked whether I’d like to take a stroll before bedtime.

“Maybe down to the brook? Just to get some fresh air.”

We went outside. The sky was bright with stars and moonlight flooded the slope down to the brook, gleaming on the roof of the greenhouse at the bottom. We walked hand in hand and I thought he held my hand tighter than usual.

“Disa, dear,” he said at last when we reached the bridge, “there’s been something on my mind for the last few days.”

We paused on the bridge to look down at the brook and then up the slope toward the house. The sight always reassures me.

“There’s been something on my mind,” he repeated, and at the same moment the moon went behind a cloud so that the only light came from a few windows up on the hill.

“I sometimes feel,” he began, hesitantly, then continued, “I’m sometimes afraid you’re not happy with me. I’ve sometimes been worried . . . well, because I am the way I am . . . I do wish it could be different but it can’t be helped. I just wanted you to know how fond I am of you. I’ve never cared so much about anybody else.”

I decided to put an end to this speech, as I knew what an ordeal it was for him. Dear Anthony, how miserable he looked, as I could see when the moon appeared again from behind the clouds.

I tried to comfort him, telling him that I was as fond of him as he was of me. “I’ve never been happier than I am here,” I said. “This is my home.”

He hugged me. His cheeks were wet.

“You’ll come back again, won’t you?”

I couldn’t help smiling at him.

“Of course, I’ll come back. You of all people should know how often I’ve put off this trip.”

A gust of wind blew across the fields as we walked back, swaying the grasses and shivering the leaves. We paused to listen to its whistling. It held the sound of spring.

“I’m going to come with you to Leith tomorrow,” he announced.

“We’ll see about that in the morning,” I replied.

2

I was flabbergasted.

“Eleven pounds!” I exclaimed in disbelief. “Surely you haven’t agreed to it?”

Anthony was as evasive as ever when the conversation turned to money, saying he considered eleven pounds a perfectly reasonable fee considering that it meant a forty-eight-hour journey for the driver, who would not only need to fill up with petrol but also pay for food and lodging for at least one night.

“Two, if he doesn’t trust himself to drive back from Leith without a break.”

However, I’d already done my sums and worked out—at a rough estimate—that petrol, accommodation at a clean bed-and-breakfast, and food and drink could not come to more than four pounds. I made allowance for his eating at decent places, though nowhere too expensive. That left seven pounds and I considered this quite enough, given that the depreciation on a four-year-old car would be insignificant over a forty-eight-hour period. Admittedly, it’s a handsome vehicle: a Jaguar Deluxe, I remember Sean Truelove telling me. Of 1957 vintage, rather than 1958.

So I told Anthony that I found this amount outrageous and asked him to strike a new deal with the driver. I reminded him at the same time that this man often got to drive guests of ours who wanted a chauffeur-driven car; we always contacted him first, called him out and showed the guests into the car. In other words, he got all this free business from us without having to lift a finger.

“And what do we take for it?” I asked. “Nothing. Not a penny. We haven’t even asked for a percentage.”

Anthony sighed and put a piece of chocolate into his mouth, but I hadn’t spoken my piece.

“And when we finally need him, he overcharges us! He doesn’t scruple to fleece us!”

“Let’s change the subject,” said Anthony. “It’s not good for you to talk about money.”

I didn’t like his tone and told him so. I also mentioned— but perhaps shouldn’t have done—that it always ended up being me who had to sort out our finances; he should remember what a mess he’d been in when I came back in ’41.

“Yet you could never be persuaded to sell a single painting and it took years of coaxing before you finally agreed to part with the estates in Devon. I feel ill when I think how much money you squandered before I got involved.”

He stood up and went to the door. I could see that he was making heroic efforts to control his temper. In the doorway he turned back.

“He gave you a discount. A forty percent discount. Are you satisfied now?”

“What?”

“At first he wouldn’t accept any fee at all but when I insisted on paying him, he refused to take any more than this. Go down to reception and look at his list of rates if you don’t believe me. It’s on the desk.”

When he went out, he had to restrain himself from slamming the door.

When I was passing through reception later that day, on some other errand, I took a quick look at the list of rates. I must admit that I felt quite upset with myself when I saw that the chauffeur appeared to have got the better of Anthony in their dealings, if you can put it like that, as it seemed to me after a brief glance that he had actually given us a more than 50 percent discount. To flare up like that, I said to myself, at Anthony of all people. It must be the trip.

Neither of us referred to the matter again, behaving as if nothing had happened when we were alone together later that evening.

But there is no denying that this incident has made me anxious and given me yet another reason to doubt whether any good will come of my journey to Iceland.

We’re taking a break from our journey, after three hours’ driving, to have a late lunch. I don’t feel bad at all, having managed to doze off in the car for several minutes. The Jaguar is spacious and extremely well kept. The driver is pleasant too and doesn’t bother me with unnecessary chitchat. He told me when I woke up that I hadn’t missed much, as nothing to speak of had happened while I was asleep except a brief shower, which was over almost before it had begun. Though there were still drops on the window when I opened my eyes.

There was nothing to disturb my peace as I sat in the back seat and made myself comfortable, nothing at all, which may explain why I began to wonder why I have always felt so contented on my travels through the English countryside. The answer probably lies in the words of the driver when he said that I hadn’t missed anything while I dozed. Before I dropped off, fields stretched out as far as the eye could see, divided either by hedgerows and trees or attractive stone dry walls. The roads which wound through the countryside were in perfect harmony with it, as if they had been there from time immemorial, the work of God rather than man. Of course, this landscape is noble in its way, though I find it tranquil more than anything else and free from contrived exclamation marks. Although the scenery which passed before my eyes this morning could hardly be considered dramatic compared to the Icelandic landscape, it has the advantage of not distracting one’s thoughts but resting them, allowing them to wander in peace. It occurred to me, as we drove past a mirrorlike lake, that from the time I first began to think for myself, I have tended to avoid journeys into the wilderness or anywhere that seemed remotely threatening.

As we drove past the beautiful lake, glassy in its calm, I began to think about the harsh Icelandic landscape, the cold mountains and the fields that spend more time under snow than in the sun, recalling without warning various trips I hoped I’d forgotten. Feeling suddenly unwell I asked the driver to stop and then walked down to the edge of the lake. Out on the water there were two men in a boat fishing. Their movements were slow—or perhaps it was just the distance that made it seem as if they were hardly moving at all. The air was clear and refreshing after the rain and I breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of green growing things, and at that moment the clouds parted and sunshine spread out like a yellow cloth over the water and the boat. I felt better and we continued our journey.

“I can’t remember ever having been carsick before,” I said to the driver as he opened the rear door for me and asked how I was feeling. “I must be a bit tired still.”

As I look out the window at the landscape, my thoughts can’t help turning to the English people and their character.

The English—here I permit myself to generalize, though of course I’m referring mainly to the upper middle classes and people from old families—the English are restrained and even-tempered by nature. They avoid showing their feelings, and if they’re at all given to self-analysis they keep the fact to themselves. They take care not to bother others with dissertations about their own affairs: after all, there are few things more tedious than people who bare their soul to one at every opportunity. Although my words may sound as if I find them cold or reserved, I don’t mean that at all: many English people are warm and considerate and in every way comfortable to associate with.

To that point, I don’t remember Anthony ever directly discussing the anxiety and problems his sexual orientation has caused him. Not once during the two decades since we first entered Ditton Hall together and he whispered to me, “Don’t you think this could be turned into a first-rate hotel with a bit of work?”

“I don’t think I could manage it,” I remember saying.

“You? No one could manage it better than you.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Wouldn’t it at least be sensible to wait till the war is over? No one will be coming here until then. And what with everything being rationed . . .”

“We’ll have to make a start now if the house is ever to be ready,” he replied. “The war will end. And one can’t live on bread alone.”

Twenty years and he has never complained to me about his lot in life, though some might have thought he had reason enough. The truth is often better left alone; there’s no need to turn over every stone in your path, no point wasting your time in endlessly regretting something that could have turned out differently. No, it doesn’t do anyone any good.

Sometimes you have to get a grip on yourself to keep your thoughts under control, but it’s worth it. The reward is just around the next corner, whether it is a clutch of perfect eggs in a basket or the sound of birdsong on a still day. The soul can take delight in small things if one’s dreams only leave it in peace long enough.

I got a bit chilled on the way here so I ordered hot soup as soon as I sat down. The girl was quick to serve me, as I’m the only customer. The other tables, twelve in all, are empty.

The edge of the village is marked by a small, smooth stream flowing between grassy banks. The sign on the other side reads Bevenford, while on this side a couple of dozen houses huddle along little-used streets. I doubt there are more than two hundred people living here, though the waitress said she didn’t know when I asked her. Judging by her expression, she considered the number so small that she was embarrassed to admit it. It wouldn’t surprise me; I remember when I had just arrived in Reykjavik either exaggerating or pleading ignorance when someone asked how many people lived in Kopasker, the north Iceland village where I grew up.

We drove slowly over the bridge into the village and stopped by the first building we came to, a green-and-white-painted garage with BP signs on either side of the frontage. I was feeling hungry but the driver said he wanted to check the oil and fill up with petrol, so we turned off the bumpy, unpaved road and drew up at the garage. As the driver had packed his own lunch, I left him with the car and set off on foot into the village in search of somewhere to eat. It wasn’t far, quarter of a mile at most, and I got chilled on the way only because it started to rain. I quickened my pace, as my coat had been left behind on the back seat of the car and I knew I’d be soaked by this steady drizzle if I didn’t get under cover quickly. I must have worked up considerable speed, judging by the way the baker and grocer stood and stared as I dashed into the high street.

The soup soon warmed me and I was pleasantly surprised by the delicious omelette which followed it. It immediately brought to mind a story about Madame Poulard who ran the Hôtel de la Tête d’Or in Normandy and was widely famed for the airy perfection of her omelettes. Someone once described them as being like ballerinas on water. So it was no wonder that travelers should beat a path to Mont-Saint-Michel simply in order to taste them, and it became something of a sport to try and guess what sorcery Madame used in their preparation. Some claimed she diluted the egg mixture with water, others insisted it wasn’t water but cream, while others firmly believed the magic ingredient was chicken stock. It wasn’t until 1932, after Madame Poulard had retired, that a countryman of hers called Robert Viel had the idea of sending her a letter to try to solve the riddle. Her answer was published in
La Table
magazine:

June
6,
1932

Dear Monsieur Viel,

Please find below the omelette recipe which you requested:

Break the eggs into a bowl, whisk them well, place a knob of butter in a
frying pan, pour in the eggs and then shake the pan constantly while the eggs
are cooking.

I do hope, Monsieur, that this recipe will come in useful.

Annette Poulard

The omelette was delicious and the glass of rosé I had with it warmed me to the core. Once Anthony had accepted the fact that he was to stay behind instead of accompanying me to the ship (the corners of his mouth turned down in sharp lines of protest before finally he nodded in resignation), he suggested I should keep a diary of my trip. He said it would be a good traveling companion for me, as it can be therapeutic to record one’s thoughts or to exorcise them if they are disturbing. In actual fact, I’ve long been in the habit of writing down this and that but have never mentioned this to anyone, not even Anthony, so I was pleased to take up the challenge and accept his gift of a notebook. It was a good, thick volume with smooth pages, bound in leather.

As I finish my glass of rosé, I become aware that the weather is clearing up and all at once the sun has started to shine through the window where I sit, illuminating the room, the empty tables and chairs, the notebook itself and my hands, and the wallpaper, pale blue with white horses galloping over it. I’m feeling fine and the doubt which assailed me earlier this morning has now vanished, leaving me full of optimism about the trip. As I put down my knife and fork a little child on a tricycle pedals past the window for the second time, threading conscientiously between the puddles in the street. I resolve to remember him, and so draw a tricycle in the book with a little boy riding it and a woman sitting at a window, watching the boy. I sketch in her outline vaguely but take more trouble over the tulips in the flowerpot outside the window.

This morning I was reminded of my childhood in Kopasker when we drove past a farm and I saw two girls— sisters, I suppose—sitting in a meadow a short way from the road, playing with blades of grass. The elder can’t have been more than ten, the younger perhaps two years her junior. My thoughts turned involuntarily to myself and my sister Jorunn when we were girls, as we often used to sit in the hayfield together making daisy chains. This morning I pushed this memory away, probably because I was feeling slightly carsick and so wasn’t ready to dredge up the past. But now I welcome the memory, so I think I’ll jot down a few episodes from my childhood. It seems appropriate to record them in Anthony’s splendid notebook, especially since I have nothing else to do for the next half hour but sit here by the window and stare into space.