Gone Viking Page 10

  Then we eat.

  On the menu are stewed mushrooms served with mystery leaves that now look and taste Very Brown Indeed. This is followed by a feast of precisely four mussels each. My face must betray my surprise at this because Tricia becomes defensive. ‘We were out there forever! I’ve only just got any sensation back in my extremities!’ Finally, the group is treated to a handful of hazelnuts and several dozen berries.

  The foraged food is a hit, of sorts. Or everyone’s so ravenous that they’ll eat anything by this point, and within minutes bowls are empty.

  ‘Well, that’s barely going to keep the wolf from the door.’ Tricia rubs her stomach, then adds, ‘No pun intended!’

  It’s surprisingly satisfying (though sadly not in a hunger-quenching, physical sense) to have created a whole ‘meal’ for free, from nothing but our wits.

  You hear that, world? I’ve got ‘wits’ now! To survive! In nature! Without a Tesco Metro for MILES!

  I catch my caffeine-deprived brain in this mode of thinking and have to remind myself that I don’t care about any of this.

  Or do I … ?

  ‘You did very well, Night Wolf.’ Magnus rests a hand on Margot’s shoulder.

  Creep, I think. No, I definitely don’t care. Definitely.

  Once we’re fractionally ‘less famished’ than before – Magnus suggests heading to the beach again.

  Tricia pulls the blanket around her more tightly and looks dismayed. ‘I’m only just thawing out!’

  ‘Not to go in the water this time,’ he assures her. ‘To look on the shore. We can start to collect things for the next stage of your Viking education – tomorrow’s craft session!’

  The excitement literally never ends …

  ‘Where the Baltic Sea meets the North Sea, you can often spot a holestone – or “hulsten” – beach stones that have a hole in them. This happens when a big wave—’ here he extends his arms up above him and does an admirable impression of what a wave might look like in man-bunned, human form ‘—washes over a stone.’ He swoops on Tricia, catching her face in the nook of his armpit. I spot her inclining her head to sniff at a pheromone.

  Urgh …

  ‘The wave carries with it many small pebbles, and as it comes crashing down—’ Magnus loops his arms around a now-beaming Tricia, then adds, with an entirely inappropriate thrust ‘—then pushes its way in—’

  All right, easy …

  ‘Until a small pebble makes its way through another stone by wearing it down.’

  ‘And, err … when we’ve collected the stones?’

  ‘Well.’ Magnus releases a swooning Tricia from his embrace and straightens up, flexing one pectoral muscle and then the other in turn. ‘You might wear one for good luck.’ He fingers his latest piece of man-jewellery, drawing attention to the new monstrosity around his neck, just below a small tattoo of interlocking triangles in his hairline (‘a Norse symbol’ as Tricia later informs me). ‘It’s very soothing to feel the smooth stone and a way to connect with nature – wherever you are.’

  If I weren’t so concerned about conserving limited food reserves, I would probably retch at this point. Nature can bog right off. But our lack of sustenance seems to be resulting in rising levels of hunger-related-irritability and mild disorientation all around, so I’m not taking any chances. It turns out woman cannot survive on foraged raspberries alone. Or even foraged raspberries with a four-mussel amuse-bouche.

  ‘Then of course we can use them for weaving tomorrow to weigh down the warp – so you can all make some very special Viking adornments!’

  ‘It’s like all my Christmases have come at once,’ I mutter to Melissa.

  ‘You’ll have some trouble returning this year’s present from me,’ she fires back.

  After this, we comb the beach, only to find two dead crabs and a washed-up ballpoint (‘handy …’). So instead we take up position on the pier in an attempt to ‘catch’ something that will comprise our next excuse for a meal.

  There are a few nets already in place that we’re encouraged to ‘have a go’ with but, after twenty fruitless minutes, Magnus takes pity on us and retrieves some flimsy-looking rods and a jar of something from a small cave up-shore. Two of the ‘fishing rods’ are little more than pieces of doweling with a line attached – the kind that children might make for a school play. The other pair, I recognise, have the ‘special wind-y-up-y bit’, as I’m calling it, and look as though they’ve been made by someone who has at least seen a fishing rod.

  I’ll be buggered if I’m sitting here for the rest of the morning with what is essentially a garden gnome accessory, I think, and so plump quickly for one of the ‘official’ metal rods. Tricia does the same, leaving Margot and Melissa to slum it with the stick-’n’-wire version.

  ‘Now, you just have to find some bait and sort of throw the line into the water,’ says Magnus.

  ‘Where do we find bai—’ Margot is starting to ask, but Magnus shushes her by pressing a finger to her mouth, squashing her lips.

  Bit familiar, I think.

  ‘I have a present for you all!’ Magnus replies, proffering a jar of wriggling grubs that force me to clasp a hand to my mouth and Tricia to dry heave dramatically.

  ‘A present?’ Tricia is still reeling. ‘What’s wrong with a book token?’ she mutters. ‘Giant Toblerone, even?’

  Fortunately, Melissa is made of tougher stuff and volunteers to be the first to attempt to spear her hook through a worm’s still convulsing body.

  Gross …

  Margot does the same but when Tricia and I make no attempt to move towards the squirming jar, Magnus offers to ‘maggot us up’.

  ‘I …’ Tricia falters. ‘No, I’ve got nothing …’ Even Tricia can’t make an innuendo out of larvae.

  We cast our lines on a count of three. And then we wait. Forever.

  ‘Welcome to fishing,’ Melissa says, still semi-brightly, though I can tell by this point she must be starving. ‘They do this on the estate every weekend. The wait is all part of the experience …’

  When it becomes abundantly clear that we’re catching nothing and the line on the wooden rods can’t even be flung past the base of the pier, Melissa takes over the ‘official’ rod and the other two women opt to forage inland instead – or rather, Margot does and my fellow Viking-sceptic Tricia follows, whispering to me that she’s going to try and sneak in a power nap.

  We sit in silence for several minutes after this until I become conscious of Magnus jogging his leg on the rickety pier and find I’m grinding my teeth. Must remember to wear my retainer for a few extra hours tonight …

  ‘You should be able to get a good catch here,’ Magnus insists, as though trying to justify the exercise. ‘Another of the really good places is right by the point, over there.’ He gestures to a rocky outcrop. ‘In fact, I might just go over there and try for some herring. Or mackerel! Good for fatty acids – for the skin and hair – eh, ladies?’ He draws this word out until he sounds like a 1970s DJ (‘lay-deeees’) before leaping to his feet and bounding off.

  Once he’s out of earshot I let out an urghhhh that’s been fermenting in me for the past ten minutes.

  ‘What are you moaning about now?’

  ‘What do you mean what am I moaning about? We’re hungry, cold, and we’ve been sitting here for over an hour, miles from civilisation—’

  ‘Oh, you and your civilisation,’ Melissa scoffs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s overrated, that’s all.’

  ‘Right …’ My sister is officially a Luddite. ‘All I’m saying is, it’s a long way to go for some casual sexism and herring.’

  ‘I like herring …’ Melissa says, defensively.

  ‘Do you like it served by a man with a monstrously big ego?’

  ‘I’m not fussy.’ There is a pause before she adds. ‘You know your problem?’

  ‘No, but I have a feeling that I’m going to find out. Hang on, let me get comfy. OK, shoot.’

&n
bsp; ‘You’re too crabby!’ Melissa looks pleased with herself.

  ‘I’ve just spent a morning drowning worms, I’m hardly feeling Zen …’

  ‘No! Crabby? Get it? Because we’re fishing.’

  ‘Christ …’

  Melissa has always enjoyed a dad-joke. More specifically, our dad’s jokes – puns so painful they would put cracker manufacturers and 90s lolly-stick makers to shame. I don’t doubt for a moment that there’s at least one tome entitled Hundred Funniest Fart Jokes Ever! loitering somewhere in her home.

  ‘Would you like another one?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Really: no.

  ‘What kind of music should you listen to while fishing?’

  ‘I don’t know. Or care—’

  ‘Something catchy! What do you call a fish without an eye?’ She’s near bouncing now with glee. ‘A fsh!’

  ‘OK, now – quiet time,’ I command, more sharply than I had intended, but Melissa complies so I decide I can always apologise later if necessary. Then I do more sea staring in between bouts of rod wriggling and run through my mental to-do list.

  This ever-changing catalogue of concerns currently consists of: update periodontitis patient list; talk to Esme about idea for mouthwash information campaign – if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: mouthwash is no substitute for effective brushing nor should it be used immediately after brushing as this removes the fluoride in the toothpaste used to protect teeth. I know, basic, right? But you’d be amazed how many patients don’t know this …

  Next, I move on to some habitual fretting about all the domestic things I can’t get on to until I get home. I wonder what Charlotte and Thomas are doing now and whether they like the new pyjamas I bought them as an ‘I’m going away and I feel guilty’ present. I wonder whether Greg managed to get a brush through Charlotte’s hair this morningfn1 and if he’s been doing their maths practice. I wonder whether Thomas is eating properly. I wonder what they’re both having for lunch, and then start running through the possibilities in my head until I realise that what I’m actually doing is running a ‘fridge porno’ of all the foodstuffs I would gladly throttle a raccoon dog to get my hands on around about now.

  ‘I suppose this is the real, traditional Nordic experience,’ Melissa says to console herself while rubbing her stomach. ‘Foraging, I mean.’

  Roused from my daydream, I feel compelled to object. ‘Yeah right!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You mean not providing us with any food. Think about it …’ Melissa does for a moment, though her expression remains unchanged. ‘It’s the perfect scam,’ I explain. ‘I can almost hear the ker-ching noise …’

  ‘No!’ She looks horrified. I arch an eyebrow and she rubs her stomach again, less sure now. ‘I mean, surely not … Do you always have to be so cynical?’

  I think about this for a while before answering. ‘Yes. Yes I do.’

  ‘Remember that time when Dad took us to the aquarium when Mum was in bed with one of her migraines and you wouldn’t believe the fish were real?’ Melissa asks me now. ‘You kept yelling “they’re puppets!” to everyone and looking for strings attached. Then, when you couldn’t find any, you demanded to know who had a hand up their bum?’

  The muscles at the corners of my mouth twitch, because, for once, I do have a vague memory of a ten-year-old storming around a glass box, convinced the whole thing was fake.

  ‘You were suspicious of everyone even then. Did you ever believe in Father Christmas?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ I tell her (see ‘whitewashed our collective past’). But since Melissa instinctively distrusts medics whereas I distrust everything else, I suspect the answer’s ‘no’. ‘Probably not,’ I tell her.

  ‘Exactly! That’s what I mean!’

  Then she gets back to the business of fishing/pole-holding. The sun emerges from behind the clouds and for a few moments a slice of bright, white light spreads over the water. I close my eyes and bask in the warmth – for as long as it deigns to last.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’ Melissa asks.

  ‘Smiling? I’m not smiling.’ My eyes snap back open, self-conscious now.

  ‘Not often you’re not, no,’ Melissa concedes, shuffling over. ‘But I saw a little smirk there! Were you secretly having a nice millisecond on this trip?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘OK …’ she says in a voice that implies she doesn’t believe me.

  And I realise that she just might be right, not to believe me.

  Margot looks slightly less composed than normal when she returns to camp and Tricia half limps to catch up with her, dodging burrs, pinecones and, probably, sheep poo, in bare feet.

  ‘We’ve got food!’ Melissa hollers as she grapples with the entrails of one of the fish Magnus caught, pushing back hair from her face with an arm, and smearing guts on her forehead in the process.

  I gallantly offered to take on fire duties (I don’t do guts …) and so prod at it now with a stick to pretend I’m doing something useful.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I whisper to Tricia, clocking Margot’s punctured expression.

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s just that we haven’t found much. She just kept muttering to herself, “history is told by the victors”. God help us if there’s a war …’

  I get it. This, I mean. Margot’s cross because she didn’t ‘win’ at foraging, this time. She strikes me as a girl who’s used to winning. Someone who’s phobic of failure. And I should know.

  I’m aware that this isn’t one of my most attractive qualities. Some days I’m not sure I have any of those sort left. But getting things wrong is a luxury I haven’t felt able to afford for a long time now. I wonder what that must feel like to be free to make mistakes and muck things up and gambol through life, doing whatever you please. Without consequences. Without people depending on you. And then my eyes fall on Melissa and I see. Ahh, that’s how. It makes her a nicer person, I’m becoming convinced. Less prickly. Less tense. Jollier, certainly. Better able to chase her own pleasure. Whatever that is, I think, forlornly. But then we eat. And I take a mouthful of warm, slightly charred fish that tastes better than any fish I think I’ve ever tasted before … and promptly chastise myself for being such a self-pitying loser. Maybe that’s all pleasure is: small, seemingly insignificant moments of enjoyment …

  We eat until we’re sated this time – a strange feeling for me, although not unpleasant. The afternoon follows loosely the same rhythm as morning, but Magnus is incapable of being still and so goes for ‘a quick 10k-er’ around the island, pursued by an overly keen Margot.

  I scour the beach again with Melissa and Tricia, who manages to endure a few moments of quiet contemplation before taking us on a blow-by-blow account of a hot flush she’s currently experiencing and then filling us in on the perils of perimenopausal dating. ‘I mean, the insomnia, the irregular periods … you don’t know where you are. And it’s tough out there. I’ll be honest, I’ve almost given up. People are always asking me, they say, “Tricia, how’s the love life?” And I have to tell them: arid desert. Total cobweb lulu. It’s been literally weeks now since it’s seen any action. And I’m a woman with considerable sexual zip.’ At this last confession I turn crimson. ‘But still, I groom! God knows, I groom. Waxing, sunbeds. And I mean all over.’ I nod, taking in her alarmingly nutty hue. ‘But really, it’s no country for old women. The younger men don’t know anything; then the older ones either go young or get curmudgeonly if they can’t – furious with life. You’re damned if they do and damned if they don’t. Basically, you’re damned. God, give me the confidence of a middle-aged white man …’

  ‘Right, yes.’ Melissa nods, adding, ‘I see …’ I wonder whether she’s reflecting that she got off lightly with her last ‘eating like Elvis’ break-up. But I realise that Tricia’s predicament is something I get scared about, too: becoming invisible – outside of the window of anyone’s romantic interest. Which is probably why, I think with a shudder, Mr Teeth …r />
  My neck mottles with shame. I shake off the thought before it has a chance to lodge itself in my brain and start producing another bout of the guilt that’s been coursing through my veins like adrenalin at odd moments ever since Premier-Inn-Gate. Instead, I compress my lips into a tight smile. Because everyone knows that if you smile through the pain and bury it, deep down, everything’s fine, I tell myself. Over and over. Put sad, angry, confused Alice in a box and pretend she doesn’t exist … Ta da! She’s just threatening to pop back up, like a jack-in-the-box, when I’m distracted by a vision, emerging from the water as if in slow motion: an awe-inspiring figure, clad in short shorts and a sports bra, knife in one hand and several shells in the other.

  ‘Is that—? Are we—? Can you see what I see?’ I blink several times to check it’s not a mirage brought on by mystery mushrooms.

  ‘I think so …’ Tricia mutters. ‘Either that or we’re in a Nordic version of Dr No.’

  Scandi Ursula Andress-alike strides through the shallows with strong, tanned calves that lead into strong, tanned thighs – actual thighs that look like thighs, rather than a twelve-year-old’s arm (the kind I’ve been aspiring to have for years).

  ‘Wow.’ Melissa staggers back slightly.

  ‘She’s like a magazine,’ is all I can murmur, because by this point, there, standing before us, is a coltish, Wonder-Woman glossy-mane-d warrior of a woman – an Amazonian goddess in human form.

  ‘Inge.’

  She speaks!

  ‘Sorry?’ Tricia asks.

  ‘Inge,’ she addresses us. We have no idea what this means. ‘I’m Magnus’s wife.’

  Magnus has a wife? THIS is Magnus’s wife?

  ‘He didn’t mention me?’ She looks faintly amused by this, rather than royally pissed off. ‘No, well, he often forgets … but here I am. I saw he’d left the food parcel behind. Again. Probably told you that you could only eat what you find in the woods, right?’ We nod, dumbly. ‘Yeah, that’s not quite true. He likes to make a joke with new arrivals.’

  Bastard! I think, I’ll kill him … I’ll bloody kill him! And then maybe eat him.