Chapter Nineteen
CHAPTER
19
Dougie insists on linking my good arm with his all the way back to the campsite, so we make slower progress than we should. Tents and marquees and fold-out chairs and tables are brightly lit by lamps. Sue from the catering staff waves from the larger marquee.
‘I expected you back ages ago,’ she says cheerily. ‘Tacos in thirty minutes.’
As I sit slowly but gratefully on a chair under the cover of the second marquee, Kit takes a medical case from the bus. He and Astrid, heads together as they talk, make their way towards me.
‘Do you need pain relief?’ Kit asks.
‘I brought paracetamol.’
Astrid puts a hand on my arm. ‘Maybe something stronger.’
‘I’m bruised, that’s all.’
‘This is our responsibility,’ Astrid says. ‘Kit will examine you.’
‘I don’t need—’
‘Otherwise, we’ll take you to the hospital.’
I keep my eyes firmly on hers. ‘Kit can look at it after I call my grandfather.’
‘Deal.’
‘And take a shower.’
‘A cold one?’ Astrid glances at Kit, who shakes his head.
‘Sue can heat water,’ he says. ‘You can wash.’
I wipe my hands on my pants, push gritty hair behind my ears. ‘A shower.’
Kit is ready to argue, but Astrid pulls him away. ‘We compromise.’
Grandpa picks up on the second ring. ‘How’s it going out there?’
I miss you. I’m homesick. I feel like I’m six years old again. ‘It’s great.’ I clear my throat. ‘We saw glow-worms today.’
Grandpa chats away about the road to the campsite, luminescence and how he’d like to be sitting right next to me. Then, ‘What are you up to tomorrow?’
‘Hiking in the national park.’
‘Take the snow bloke to the places you and your dad used to go. Late May is too cold for tadpoles I’m thinking, but …’
After I talk to Grandpa, it would be tempting to have a warm drink and then go to sleep. Today would be over. Tomorrow would be another day. But I have half-moons of dirt in my nails. My pants are wet through. When I curl up my toes, they squelch in my boots. Immediately I stand, Astrid, a stack of towels in her hands, rushes over. ‘I can help.’
‘Did Kit send you to supervise?’
‘You have a choice. Me or him.’
As I undress behind a rough block wall that operates as a screen, Astrid scrolls through her phone. Without mirrors I have a limited view, but the skin around the top of my arm and sternum is purplish-red. I walk careful steps into the cubicle and press my hand against my collarbone. Sensitive, nothing more. After counting backwards from three, I turn on the tap. The water is freezing. I’m covered in goosebumps. My fingers are white and I’m shivering. But I rinse mud from my body and wash my hair.
After rubbing myself dry, I painstakingly dress—undies, track-pants and a loose-fitting singlet top. Astrid holds out my hoodie so I can get my sore arm in first. I pull woollen socks onto my feet and push them into sneakers. Then, after combing through my hair with my fingers, I wrap a towel around my shoulders for the drips. Astrid collects my clothes and toiletries bag.
I clench my teeth to still the chattering. ‘Did I pass?’
‘Kit will judge.’
Kit, presumably on the way to a shower himself, openly watches my progress. When I join the others, Erik and Dougie are listening with pained expressions to Adam as he postulates on the weight and dimensions of Dougie’s camera, the height of the tripod and the trajectory of the fall.
‘It was lucky she didn’t get it in the—’ He grimaces when he notices me. ‘Sorry you got hurt, Mac.’
‘The tacos smell good.’
‘How about I get you corn chips for starters?’
As Adam walks away, Dougie rolls his eyes. ‘The dickhead put the tripod clips the wrong way round. Not that that excuses what happened. I couldn’t be sorrier.’
I sit back in the chair, gratefully accepting the corn chips when Adam returns, as the camp buzzes around me. Kit, dressed in a dry and clean version of the clothes he wore earlier, strides out of the shower block. Broad shoulders, tapered hips, long legs. He stands to the side of the other men.
‘Mac?’ Erik smiles. ‘Notwithstanding your work on The Dragon Slayers , I suspect you have little experience of film work.’
‘None.’
‘You’ll pick it up,’ Adam says. ‘Cameras were new to Kit too.’
‘That isn’t so.’ Erik glances at Kit. ‘Kit’s mother was very well known.’
Kit frowns. ‘She was an athlete.’
‘A medal-winning Olympic skier is more than an athlete. She was beautiful, still is, and you and your brothers were smaller versions of your extraordinary father. The whole of Europe knew of Sigrid and her family. There would have been cameras.’
Kit’s nod is stiff. ‘We avoided them.’
‘Kit showed me your father’s photos,’ Dougie says. ‘How old was he when he was in Antarctica?’
‘Twenty-one, twenty-two.’
‘At that age and with the camera gear he had access to …’ He holds up a little finger. ‘Your father had more talent at the tip of this joint than anyone else I can name.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I bet he took a heap of film of you.’
I smile. ‘Yes.’
Dougie positions his hands like he’s framing a shot. ‘Do that again.’
I laugh. ‘What?’
With a grin, Dougie lowers his make-believe camera. ‘Gotcha.’
Erik whistles. ‘You have a wonderful smile, Mac—it lights up your face. You can show that off tomorrow.’
I smile again. ‘Even though laughing hurts?’
Kit stands abruptly. ‘I’ll examine you now.’
‘Kit, mate.’ Dougie grins as he stands and slaps Kit on the shoulder. ‘Your social skills are abysmal.’
As the others head to the catering marquee, Kit moves his chair to face mine and sits again. He keeps his eyes firmly on my arm as I hold the singlet out of the way. His touch is impersonal.
‘The tunnel.’ He’s very serious. ‘I didn’t set you up.’
‘I didn’t accuse you of that.’
When he’s finished pressing firm but careful pressure over my shoulder and down my arm, he lays his hand flat against my sternum. ‘What do you feel?’
Is it wrong to not hate this? The touch of his hand on my body, the movement of his fingers at the base of my throat.
‘It’s sensitive, uncomfortable, that’s all.’
He nods agreement before taking my hand and laying it in his. He puts two of the fingers of his other hand against my palm. Then he looks up.
‘What?’
His lip lifts. ‘Squeeze my fingers.’
‘Oh!’ My skin warms as I wrap my hand around his fingers.
‘I don’t want to hurt you in a personal way.’ He searches my face. ‘I want to avoid it.’
He’s confident and capable. He’s from another world. I squeeze his fingers again. ‘I don’t understand you.’
‘You don’t like me.’
‘Yes. No.’
For a heartbeat, he stills. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He turns his hand and threads our fingers. ‘I don’t know what to do with you.’
‘You’re not responsible for me.’
‘You judge without knowing me.’
My stomach rumbles so loudly he must hear it. ‘I know about Chloe, about the kind of women you date.’
He frowns. ‘They aren’t important.’
When he lifts our hands, his breath is warm on my knuckles. My neck warms. My breasts tingle.
‘How’s the patient!’ Dougie calls out.
***
By the time I’ve eaten and brushed my teeth, Astrid declares I’ll be more comfortable if I sleep in the smaller marquee because it has a high-pitched roof and is ten times the size of my tent. Then she tells Adam to move my gear into the space, de-bug it and close the flaps. She and Kit check his handiwork before saying goodnight.
I talk through a yawn. ‘Thanks for your help.’
Erik stretches and Dougie does the same. He gives Adam a friendly cuff on the shoulder. ‘We’re off too.’
There’s no light inside the marquee, but the lights from outside filter through the canvas. I do my best to comb through my hair with my fingers but it’s too painful to lift my arm to tie it back. I put tablets, a water bottle and a torch on the groundsheet next to my mat. Astrid and Kit talk quietly outside as I sit on a folding chair to kick off my shoes. I’d like to slide into my sleeping bag, but that might prove difficult, so I unzip the sides to open it up and lay it over me. I close my eyes and think of tomorrow.
Lights, camera, action.
I have to do better.
***
My heart is thumping. What was I dreaming? I’m lying on my side. One of my legs is beneath my unzipped sleeping bag and one is on top. My hands are ice blocks.
‘Mackenzie.’
When Grandpa says ‘Mackenzie’ his voice is soft and raggedy. When Kit says my name, each syllable is clearly enunciated.
‘What?’ I squeeze my eyes shut, open them again. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘You called out.’
Biting back a shiver, I roll onto my back and—
‘Ow.’ I grab my head. ‘Ow.’
Kit opens the entrance flap of the marquee. ‘What’s happened?’
I flatten my shoulders against the mat. ‘I’m okay.’
He takes a step but keeps his distance. The flap slaps against the wall of the tent. ‘Do you want a painkiller?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Why are you lying like that?’
I fall from a horse. I get hit by a camera. Is the Viking my kryptonite? ‘My hair is stuck. It’s caught in the zip.’
Why doesn’t he say anything? Even laughing would be better than this silence. From the corner of my eye, I see him balance his torch on one of the central struts. Keeping his distance, he puts down the bundle in his hand and crouches.
‘Hold on to me.’ He extends an arm. ‘Come up slowly.’
When I hold his arm with both hands, he puts one of his hands behind my back and the other behind my head. Keeping the sleeping bag close, he pushes me upright. My head doesn’t hurt but the top of my arm is painful.
Finally sitting, I bite hard on my lip. ‘Give me a minute.’
His gaze is on my mouth. ‘Release it.’
I do as he asks, take a couple of breaths. ‘Ow.’
‘Take your time.’
I count to ten, loosen my grip on his arm. ‘I’m okay now.’
Excruciatingly carefully, he frees my hair from the zip. Then, as I sit as still as a statue, he combs through my hair with his fingers. His strokes are measured. Gentle.
‘If I don’t tie it back …’ I clear my throat. ‘It gets in the way.’
With his hands on my shoulders, he turns me so that I’m sitting with my back to him with my legs curled under my bottom. He combs through my hair again, smooths it down my back. Then, carefully securing my hair behind my ears before pulling it high, he separates the strands.
‘I’ll braid it.’
‘Where did you learn that?’ My voice is a squeak.
‘Ropes.’
He takes hair from the side of my head to my crown, separates it into three, braids it to the nape of my neck and then he plaits. Between my shoulder blades. The small of my back. My waist. His touch isn’t inappropriate. He barely touches at all. Yet …
I’m a bundle of senses all tangled up. ‘Thank you.’
‘Do you have a tie?’
A bird hoots. A rush of leaves. ‘In my toiletries case.’
I hold my breath as he reaches over my legs, loops a loose thread from the sleeping bag around a finger, yanks it free and winds it around the end of the plait. Firm and secure. A rope. His fingers brush my neck.
I clear my throat. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’ve said that two times.’
Would I prefer him to be arrogant and infuriating instead of thoughtful and kind? Not tonight. Not when I’m far away from Grandpa. Not when my body aches. Not in this tent in the middle of the bush.
He spreads out my sleeping bag, careful to wedge the zip at the top under the edges of the mat. He hands me the water bottle and tablets.
‘Are these strong enough?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I push two tablets from the blister pack. ‘That’s three times.’
A brief hesitation. ‘Wait here.’
‘Where would I go?’
He frowns briefly before leaving the tent, but soon enough I hear footsteps again. I swallow the tablets and take sips of water as he secures the flap.
‘Lie down.’
Should I follow his directions? My mind says no. My body, stiff and aching, says a definite yes.
‘How do you say arrogant in Norwegian?’
‘In what sense?’
‘You are arrogant.’
‘Du er arrogant.’
‘Really? It must be an English word.’
Besides a quirk in his lip, he doesn’t respond, but immediately I lie down, he brings up the sides of my sleeping bag and anchors them with another unzipped sleeping bag. This one is like a quilt, far thicker and downier than mine.
‘This is yours, isn’t it? You need it.’
‘I have layers.’
Socks, boots and pants. A jacket and a thick jumper with the collar pulled up. Are they the layers he’s talking about? Or is it something else, something far more personal? Does he have more layers than I’ve given him credit for?
‘What time is it?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Why are you up?’
Like it’s a perfectly natural thing to do at this time of night, he tells me he went for a walk. Does he consider that safe because he’s carrying a compass? Because he’s not like regular people?
‘You know we have snakes and spiders?’
‘Norway has brown bears and moose.’ He puts a hand over one of mine. ‘Are you warm enough?’
He’s simply making sure I don’t freeze to death on his watch. So why is my heart thumping? His nails are short and nicely shaped. I turn my hand and grasp his fingers.
‘Your hand is cold too.’
He takes a few breaths. One. Two. Three. He sandwiches my hand. ‘Don’t hate me.’
I think about that. ‘Grandpa likes you.’
Outside the tent it’s dark and gusty. Inside the tent, his torch throws shadows. My body warms. I rub his hand between mine. I put our hands on my chest.
I yawn. ‘I’m a bit sleepy.’
He puts his other hand on my forehead, pushes back the few strands of hair he didn’t secure in the braid. ‘Kj?reste.’
Part of me doesn’t want to know what the word means and part of me does. Because even though I’m flat on my back and my body aches, I don’t feel weak. He’s looking at me like—
I slip my hand from his, touch his mouth, trace the contours. ‘I’ll do better tomorrow. You’ll see.’
Notwithstanding the darkness, his eyes are bright. When he turns his head and puts his mouth against my wrist, a million fiery tingles trickle down my spine.