Gone Viking Read online

  Tricia joins in, too, but is – as predicted – about as much use as a carpet fitter’s ladder. Somehow, between us, we manage to get the blasted thing up onto our shoulders. Which, when you have four women of varying heights from semi-midget (Melissa) to me (once reviewed by an ex as ‘gangly’), makes for quite an achievement.

  With one log in place, there is a sort of unspoken confidence that we can therefore get another log in place. And another. And another. Until, maybe, hopefully, we’ll have built something that keeps us dry. Ish. We’ve also been instructed to find a boulder for the ‘door’ in accordance with Magnus’s strangely biblical vision for our inaugural shelter.

  At least, that’s the plan.

  Twelve hours later, I wake to find Melissa spooning me from behind and someone’s toes tickling my nose.

  ‘Arrgh … wha—? Go away!’ I bat off feet, then Melissa’s leg, which has been flung over my torso. ‘I was having a very detailed dream about being at a spa …’

  A tousled head looks up from the other end of our tiny shelter and Margot blinks into consciousness.

  ‘Morning!’

  ‘Oh, hi …’

  ‘Oh … God … what time is it?’ Tricia’s voice growls, as the feet in my face stretch and flex.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply tightly, realising that I will have precisely zero privacy for the next week. I’m also cold, dirty, and uncomfortable, lying under a scratchy blanket while my airbed gently seeps … I’m definitely touching earth, I think, scanning my body for areas of severe pain and finding several. There are stones the size of a small island under my spine, my head is throbbing, and someone has broken wind.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Melissa apologises with a waft of her hand to clear the smell.

  Urgh, gross.

  ‘Isn’t this snug?’ she continues, propping herself up on an elbow.

  I have never liked camping. That was always Dad and Melissa’s thing. Mum and I preferred the indoors. And beds. And sheets. Dad still likes to go and stay with Melissa in the countryside and the pair apparently go off on adventures into the wild. I am not invited, but then, neither do I wish to partake. I see Dad once a year, sometimes twice, and always invite him to spend either Christmas or Easter at ours. I never go to his. Because that would mean going ‘home’ to a house crammed with sentiment and sadness. The house where Mum died. And I don’t do sad, as a rule.

  Dad has never complained about this arrangement, but then, Dad never complains about anything. You’d barely even know he was there half the time. It’s as though a part of him stopped when Mum did. Like he got sick at the same rate as Mum, just in a different way – with a prognosis that was chronic rather than terminal. He demanded less from life and took less pleasure out of it. No matter what options he was presented with. This is a state of affairs that continues to this day. But it means I can at least persuade myself that he doesn’t mind things the way they are. That everything’s fine. That everyone’s fine. I get to stay ‘down South’, inside, immersed in a life I have created for myself – while he and Melissa get to play at roughing it in the ‘great’ outdoors or wallowing in nostalgia in the house haunted by memories. Either way, I don’t do wallowing and I do not camp.

  ‘I am far too mid-thirties to sleep on the floor,’ I grumble.

  ‘It’s the ground, actually,’ clarifies Melissa. ‘And technically you’re now late thirties …’

  I give her a look that makes her stop right there.

  Margot offers to go and start ‘fire stoking’ duties as the rest of us come to from our semi-slumber.

  ‘I’ll be honest, this isn’t quite what I had in mind when I booked, either,’ Tricia admits. ‘I suspected that there might be a few Mads Mikkelsen types, around, loosely tethered. Or a lot of hot people, whittling stuff. Maybe some sword forging. But not this. Never this.’ She pats the area of skin underneath her eyes to ‘de-puff’, as she tells us, and begins a series of bizarre facial exercises that make her look as though she’s doing a very bad lip synch (‘What? The render’s good but we can all use some structural support after a certain age …’).

  ‘I thought the place would be riddled with pastries, but there you go,’ says Melissa. ‘Still, it’s exciting, isn’t it? To try living like they did hundreds of years ago?’

  What? On lilos marked ‘Made in Taiwan’? is what I want to say but find I have lost my appetite for sarcastic asides.

  Tricia is shaking her head and I’m comforted by the thought that I might have a kindred spirit in Viking-despair.

  ‘I miss a cloud-soft bed and silk pillowcases,’ she says now. ‘And an external coffee.’

  ‘External?’

  ‘Not homemade. In a paper cup.’

  ‘Ah.’ I nod. ‘I miss my phone,’ I confess, then add hastily, ‘and my kids. Obviously.’

  ‘Oh, yes. And the dogs.’ Then Tricia also reassesses her list: ‘And my son.’

  ‘Ahh, you have dogs?’ Melissa perks up.

  That’s her take-home from Tricia’s statement of priorities? The sodding dogs? I’m intrigued by Tricia’s parental and domestic arrangements. But Melissa, clearly, isn’t.

  ‘What breed?’ my sister goes on.

  ‘I’ve got four little Shih Tzu.’ Tricia beams.

  ‘Huh …’ Melissa sounds disappointed. I suspect she was hoping for something a little tougher.

  ‘And your son?’ the question slips out.

  ‘Ed? Oh, he’s all right. Grown-up now, but, you know, nice, really.’

  I’m no earth mother, but this seems a strange evaluation of one’s offspring … Were I a normal, conversationally-at-ease person, I’d request all sorts of additional information about what GCSEs he has or whatever it is people are supposed to ask in these situations. But I’m not. So I don’t.

  Instead, still wearing the same clothes I arrived in, I gather a blanket around me and wriggle to my feet among the stray limbs. I can see my breath inside our ‘shelter’ on account of us running out of the time and energy to source anything resembling a ‘door’ – biblically boulder-based or otherwise. Now, I merely have to duck under a precariously balanced beam before I’m officially ‘outside’. Tricia and Melissa follow and we poke at the embers of the fire Margot has successfully reignited, attempting to get some much-needed heat out of it.

  Tricia is just coughing up some viscous-sounding phlegm (‘Stopped smoking three months ago. Lungs playing catch up,’ she explains) when Margot appears, looking pale and walking like John Wayne.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Tricia hacks and Margot blushes crimson.

  ‘Ants’ nest. Wee,’ is all she says.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘I thought there were no dangerous bugs around here?’ I look at Melissa.

  ‘I don’t think they’ll kill you, just make you itchy,’ she replies.

  ‘And we’ve all been there,’ Tricia says, her jaw stiffening at the recollection.

  By 5.30am, according to the old-school watch that Melissa insists on wearing in lieu of my smartphone-as-clock approach, the fire is going at full lick. We’re beginning to warm up as the dawn encroaches and a bluish light percolates through the trees.

  I rub my hands together to get some sensation back in my fingers until Melissa intervenes.

  ‘Here, let me help,’ she says, as I adjust to the realisation that in addition to having no privacy this week, any semblance of personal space has now been utterly eroded, too. ‘You’ve always had crap circulation. You get that from Mum.’

  ‘Great. What did you get?’

  ‘Slow metabolism and big bones.’

  ‘Bitch.’ Tricia shakes her head. ‘I got bunions.’

  ‘Do you mind? That’s our late mother you’re talking about!’ I object.

  ‘Sorry, yes. I was projecting.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Melissa, ‘she was a bit of a c—’ Then seeing my expression, she stops. ‘Well, they were different times …’

  Magnus strolls into view at this moment, put
ting an end to any further dispute. Despite the cold he is shirtless, again, with ‘nipples like bullets’, as Tricia feels obliged to announce. This morning, his beard has been plaited into a long braid that reminds me of an old-fashioned bog chain.

  He tells us he hopes we ‘slept well in the fresh air’ and that ‘infrared from the fire is very healing for the body’.

  ‘Is it?’ I ask doubtfully, then inform him that it’s still brass monkeys out here and I feel like death.

  ‘Here, drink this.’ He removes a flask from one of the vast, voluminous folds in today’s pair of black harem pants as well as four plastic cups that he proceeds to fill with a Kermit-coloured liquid.

  ‘What is that?’ Melissa asks.

  ‘Green juice!’ he announces. ‘Made with nettles and healing plants.’

  ‘Mixed with Shrek piss?’ Tricia asks Magnus and his pecs. ‘I love a Shrek’s piss drink. I’ve done vegan, caveman, clean’n’green, the Wellness deficit diet …’ she tails off. Melissa looks at her as though she’s speaking Russian. ‘What? If it’s good enough for Jessica Biel …’

  Melissa nods as though this is a fair point but still looks confused. She couldn’t pick a non-Royal celebrity under the age of fifty out of a captioned line-up so, for once, I take pity on her. ‘Think ‘a latter-day Olivia Newton-John’. Or maybe Elisabeth Shue,’ I explain and Melissa makes an ‘ahhh!’ sound of recognition.

  Our green juice is just as disgusting as it sounds and so naturally I drink it all, certain that it’s doing me good (I’ll probably look like Margot by morning …).

  Afterwards, we’re led to a stream on the outskirts of the forest for a ‘prison wash’. Yes, that’s right: this ‘retreat’ is now so far from a spa it’s practically a jail sentence. But once we get clear of the forest, despite being disorientated, dazed and more than a little tired, we’re treated to the sight of a painfully beautiful expanse of cobalt sea that quite takes my breath away. The clouds look as though they’ve been painted on with a sponge and a bright, growing orb is trifling with the horizon – brighter and clearer than any sunrise I’ve ever seen.

  Pens and paper are produced from another pocket in Magnus’s palatial pants (‘What else has he got in there?’ Tricia’s eyes are like saucers as she allows her imagination to run wild) and we’re told to write a letter to our ‘future selves’.

  ‘Minimum of two sides,’ he tells us, ‘to be posted to your home address in six months’ time.’

  This all sounds very Blue Peter time-capsule but my fellow retreatees get on with the challenge without complaining, so I get my head down and try to do the same.

  Only I’m dizzy with hunger by now – despite the Shrek piss – and the headache that’s been lurking for the last couple of days is now establishing itself across my cranium. I find I have trouble concentrating and can feel my stomach contracting. Maybe my body’s digesting itself, I speculate. Interesting.

  ‘Think about what you’ve learned so far, what you want to get out of this week, and how you’d like your life to be different by the time you receive this letter,’ Magnus prompts us.

  This is hard because: a) I try not to think too much about my life in case I’m swallowed up in an existential vortex of self-reflection and indulgence (then who’ll look after everyone else?); b) the mounting hunger is distracting; and c) I’m scared. Scared that in six months’ time, life might be exactly the same as it is now.

  Frightened, in fact, that it might even be the same in six years’ time. This would be bearable if I just stumbled along and came across this nebulous date during the course of everyday life: working and keeping busy. Because then it would just be Getting On With Things. Coping. At which I am a strong eight-out-of-ten. But I suspect that the way I like to plan for the future (i.e. ‘micromanage’ and fill up a colour-coded schedule) isn’t quite what our Viking leader has in mind. We’re being asked to contemplate the big questions on a wider canvas. On day bloody two … Which, I convince myself, is hugely unfair. But I have a go.

  When I think I’ve finished (does a bullet point about setting up online supermarket deliveries to save time at weekends count?), I look up to find everyone else still hard at it. So I try again. And somehow, my pen starts moving, dancing almost, across the page. The words flow until my brain feels empty and the sun has turned a hot pink. I realise, with delight, that I’m finally warm. And I’m the last one writing. Time has vanished, without my even realising it.

  Magnus collects up our offerings before secreting them in his trousers (‘I’ve never wanted to be a letter so much in my life …’ Tricia murmurs). Then he announces that it’s time for breakfast. Which is excellent news because for the first time in months (years?) I’ve got an appetite (See ‘body digesting itself’).

  ‘Great! Where’s the food?’ Melissa enquires, with some urgency now as I hear her insides gurgling.

  Magnus doesn’t say anything, but raises an arm and points at the forest.

  ‘I didn’t see anything when we came this way.’ My sister puckers her brow.

  ‘That’s because you have to find it!’ our leader announces. ‘You will forage like the Vikings did – in the ancient forest and scrubland.’

  Crapsticks …

  I really hope the ancient forest is ready to deliver. Or that there’s secretly a drive-through hamburger outlet in there. Because, for once, I’m starving.

  Four

  We trudge to the forest, famished and foggy from caffeine withdrawal (on my part, at least). I’m also patting myself down every few minutes in the manner of an aeroplane security guard, convinced that I can feel vibrations and that these must have a physical source. But alas, my phantom smartphone is just that.

  ‘Shame …’ I shake my head and mutter to no one.

  Tiredness has made me woozy and hunger is now slowing my brain so that I’m not entirely with it when Magnus begins his briefing on the brave new world of edible plants.

  ‘The easiest things to start with are chanterelle mushrooms,’ he says, glancing around to see if he can find one to show us, then giving up and waving a hand in a sort of ‘ah, you’ll be fine!’ dismissal. ‘Basically they’re yellow and a bit frilly. Nothing like the red and white spotted ones you see in kids’ books! Don’t eat them, they’ll kill you!’ He chuckles. ‘But chanterelle don’t look like that, so they’re usually OK to pick.’

  ‘Usually?’ I echo. Brilliant …

  ‘Then ramson, or wild garlic, is easy to find,’ he goes on. ‘Look for long, leaves: thick in middle, narrow at the ends.’

  I am none the wiser after this description, but Magnus assures us that they’re a ‘delicacy’, delectable in wild garlic pesto.

  ‘For breakfast?’

  It’s hardly a fruit plate and a large Americano …

  ‘Our forefathers would just have foraged for whatever they could find,’ is his reply.

  Maybe so, but I bet our foremothers were more discerning …

  ‘Vikings eat what’s in season – and right now, this is ramson. You just grind it down,’ Magnus says, executing an unconvincing mime in the manner of a man who is totally unfamiliar with a pestle and mortar. ‘Really pump it –’ I already know that Tricia is smiling at this before I look ‘– then substitute the foraged herb for the basil, find some hazelnuts to use instead of pine nuts, and just imagine the parmesan—’

  Oh, FFS … If we’re ‘imagining’ food, I may as well go for an Egg McMuffin … Or do a Sainsbury’s sweep …

  I spend a few moments visiting an imaginary supermarket in my head and filling my imaginary trolley with all manner of imaginary carbohydrates and meat-based products.

  ‘Ground elder is also good – really fresh and bitter,’ Magnus goes on. ‘And of course a lot of the berries are in season.’

  Finally, a foodstuff I’ve heard of.

  He rounds up by recommending we scour the shallows for mussels, since the tide is low round about now.

  Mmm, molluscs at dawn …

  But Me
lissa has more practical concerns. ‘And you want us to do all of this without shoes on?’ She looks down at our bare feet.

  ‘Wet feet are better than wet shoes,’ says Magnus.

  ‘Well, yes, but what about wellies?’

  ‘Willies?’

  There is a snort.

  ‘Wellingtons. As in boots. Made from rubber …’

  Tricia struggles to keep it together.

  Really? We’re laughing at the word ‘rubber’ now? Hunger has made us hysterical.

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, do you think our forefathers wore wellies?’

  Melissa looks meek and shakes her head as I contemplate that our fore-mothers would doubtless have invented them pretty swiftly had they been liberated from the patriarchal tyranny of constant childbirth … or had access to a moulding plant … I’m feeling more irritable than usual. Probably because I haven’t eaten in … I give up on the mental arithmetic before I even get started, the anticipation of effort exhausting me … many hours …

  ‘So we forage barefoot,’ Magnus continues.

  ‘Weeing on your feet is supposed to toughen them up,’ volunteers Margot with alarming eagerness. ‘We could try that?’

  If anyone pisses on my feet I will punch them in the face, I vow, experiencing full-voltage hanger now.

  ‘If all else fails, just remember what you learned at school!’ Magnus ends. ‘Spending time in nature and learning about plants is something little children are really good at. Then, as time goes on, we’re supposedly “civilised” by life and we forget these essential skills.’

  The Scandinavian early-education system sounds slightly different to that of the Midlands in the early 1980s. Unfortunately, all I learned about nature at preschool was the difference between dog poo and Play-Doh (the hard way), and that stinging nettles and shorts don’t mix. The best that St Mary’s CoE primary school had to offer was a mangy ‘nature table’ sporting cress-heads in eggshells and – once – a dead vole that Jonathan Harris’s dad ran over on the way to work. Leamington Spa locals seldom foraged for their supper beyond the confines of Asda and didn’t typically possess – let alone pass on – the knowledge and skills to find food in the wild. Although Melissa did once find a Double Decker in the bushes at Newbold Common. Mum told her not to eat it, saying it probably belonged to a drug addict (‘Why, Mum? Why would a drug addict chuck out a chocolate bar in a wetlands centre?’). But Melissa wolfed it anyway, despite the fact that Mum had just put my twelve-year-old sister on The Hay Diet.