Chapter Sixteen
Sailing through the Arctic darkness, one faces the unknown.
The ship was quiet when Henry and Joy returned and went their separate ways, both agreeing to meet up again at dinner. Henry opened the door to his cabin and noted that Jennifer had arranged a towel in the shape of a penguin and placed it in the middle of his bed.
How clever, Henry thought as he studied the tiny figure, and remembered that penguins were faithful little creatures who thrived in the harshest conditions.
Jennifer had skilfully crafted the shape using a hand towel and face cloths, and he wondered what other guests thought of her efforts.
Jennifer went above and beyond to ensure that Henry’s cabin was comfortable and tidy.
Somewhat different from his home, where, although everything had a place, Henry often misplaced items.
Sitting by the desk, he retrieved his camera and studied the photographs he’d taken.
He’d captured a rather excellent shot of giant icicles suspended from a building in the town, and images of the blue-painted buildings in the twilight of mid-day were almost surreal.
Streetlamps and Christmas lights glimmered along the busy, snowy streets, casting warm reflections on the ice and snow.
Pedestrians in colourful snowsuits added life and vividness to the scene, and Sortland’s festive glow looked like a Christmas card coming to life. Audrey will love these!
The members of his photography club would be impressed by the beauty of Sortland too.
Pleased with his pictures of the church, Henry smiled when Joy appeared on his screen.
He noted how the sun caught the gleam of her chestnut hair as she pulled off her hat and shook away the snow from the playful missile he’d launched.
Joy was laughing and her eyes crinkled at the corners, while her smile lit up the frame.
Henry paused, his finger hovering over the image.
His thoughts drifted back to the church, to the quiet hush beneath the vaulted ceiling where they’d studied the nativity scene together.
How he’d longed at that moment to reach out and take Joy’s hand.
But, feeling foolish and as uncertain as a schoolboy, he’d resisted the urge.
It was unthinkable to make an approach, and Joy would have pushed him away.
She was a grieving widow, he reminded himself.
But as he studied her face, he lingered.
Grief still sat behind her eyes but no longer clung like the shroud that he’d seen when they’d first met at dinner.
As the days passed, she’d begun to emerge, and her laugh was music to Henry’s ears.
Joy’s company was easy, and it was a pleasure to be with her.
Over coffee in the Scandic café, they’d sat by the fire, and she’d told him about her time at the captain’s table and the interesting guests she’d met.
Henry listened carefully, nodding as Joy spoke of Lady Eleanor and the older woman’s endless days at sea, drifting from port to port like a ghost from another era.
Being with Joy, conversation flowed effortlessly, and as he did with Audrey, Henry felt that he could be himself without any need to perform or impress.
But where Audrey’s companionship felt like a warm, comforting cardigan, Joy’s wasn’t just comfort; it was possibility.
Henry hadn’t expected to have any romantic feelings again. At seventy, that was absurd. He knew that he was no more than a companion for excursions, and he would be foolish to make a move.
Henry replaced his camera in its case and pushed back his chair.
Reaching for the Daily Times, he scanned the itinerary for the remainder of the day and saw that there was plenty to do.
He toyed with the idea of a Christmas cookery class, where Kransekake, a sweet almond cake, was being demonstrated, then considered a quiz in the Bookmark Café, but his thoughts still strayed to Joy, and he wondered what Audrey would say.
Henry could almost see his friend wagging her finger.
‘Life is for living, and our time is short! Don’t be a fool and die wondering.
’ How many times had Audrey repeated those words when Henry was hesitant.
So often, she’d encouraged him to come out of his comfort zone.
But despite Audrey’s pearls of wisdom, Henry knew that he was unable to express his feelings, and romance with Joy would remain strictly out of bounds.
Henry stood. It was no use sitting in his cabin, and he’d noted that an art class titled Arctic Acrylics would begin mid-afternoon.
Taking heed of Audrey’s words, he decided that he’d step out of his comfort zone and head to the Emerald Art Studio to brave Lucinda Green.
He’d never attempted to paint, and perhaps it was time that he did.
But first, he’d grab a bite to eat in the buffet restaurant.
Moving to a mirror, Henry tugged on his collar and straightened his sweater. ‘Who knows?’ he asked his reflection. ‘I might be a budding Lowry or even paint like Picasso.’
As he moved past the penguin, he gave the little bird a wave. ‘Hold the fort until I return with a masterpiece,’ Henry called out, then shook his head, chuckling softly.
He was talking to towel sculptures now!
Leticia and Jim had enjoyed their excursion to Vester?len, and both felt as though they’d stepped back in time as their guide explained the history of a region rich with Sámi heritage.
There was something about the area that held Leticia as she stood on the snow, listening for sounds in the almost silent, dark landscape.
By a boathouse, she was enchanted by a line of drying fish, and the winter rhythm of Norwegian life went on behind the walls of the red-roofed houses that they passed.
Jim chatted with fellow passengers about how summers in Vester?len had permanent daylight, and in winter, the polar night went on for months.
They’d sat hand in hand in the Royal Triton Hall, their fingers entwined as local musicians played.
The notes danced through the hall’s exquisite acoustics and Leticia remembered turning to Jim, her eyes shining.
A wave of emotion welled, and she felt a fierce gratitude for the man she loved.
She’d wanted to hold onto the moment, to capture the shape of his smile and the adoration in his eyes and freeze frame his face forever.
Tears pricked her eyes. Loving Jim was the most beautiful thing she’d ever known.
No words were required. It was a magical moment that they both felt, and one that Leticia would treasure.
Now, Leticia sat in the Emerald Art Studio.
Jim was resting in their suite and, having been inspired by the thriving arts scene in Vester?len earlier, Leticia had decided to try her hand at Arctic Acrylics.
It would be pleasing to paint something as a reminder of the cruise and take home a memory.
Leticia knew she wasn’t an artist, but it might be fun to try.
The windows of the studio were wide, framing the tranquil sea.
The ship wouldn’t leave Sortland until early evening, giving passengers on longer excursions plenty of time to enjoy their day.
Leticia had arrived early and chosen a seat in the middle of the room, where easels surrounded her, and a scent of paint and turpentine hung in the air.
She stared at a table scattered with palettes and jars of water, where someone had laid out brushes in a haphazard fashion.
‘All on your own?’ a voice rang out, and a halo of vivid red hair sprang into the room.
Lucinda Green’s thick green eyeliner appeared to have missed the mark, giving her a reptilian look.
She wore well-worn dungarees over a thin white vest, the straps of the bib casually unfastened and hanging loose.
It was clear to Leticia that Lucinda had chosen to forgo a bra and didn’t care who noticed.
She held a cigarette holder in one hand and removed a short stub, tucking it casually in a pocket.
‘Blasted rules,’ Lucinda mumbled. ‘One can’t have a fag inside, and I’ve been up on deck.
Almost froze my tits off.’ She tapped the cigarette holder on a table and, reaching into her vest, tucked it neatly beneath one breast. ‘The old pencil test,’ Lucinda said, catching Leticia’s curious look.
‘Back in the school dorms, amongst body-conscious teenage girls, it was the ultimate benchmark. If the pencil fell to the floor, it meant your chest was still defying gravity,’ she gave a nonchalant shrug.
‘Sadly, I made peace with gravity years ago and could probably get a whole case of the buggers under there now.’ She placed her hands on her sagging breasts, shoving them upwards.
Leticia thought that a decent bra would eliminate the problem but decided to keep her thoughts to herself.
‘Grab an apron while you wait,’ Lucinda instructed, then turned to busy herself, placing a canvas on each easel.
The room began to fill, and budding artists entered, taking their seats with nods and smiles to each other. Leticia was delighted to see Joy hesitantly standing in the doorway, and she waved to beckon her over. ‘You’re here!’ Leticia smiled. ‘Have you done much painting?’
Joy placed her bag down and inched onto a chair at a nearby easel. ‘I’ve dabbled in watercolours, but that was a long time ago.’
Suddenly, Lucinda clapped her hands. ‘That’s enough gossiping,’ she called out, ‘we’re here to work, not chatter like fishwives.’ She showed the class where to gather paint and brushes and, instructing them to watch her work, she began.
‘I want you to imagine the silence of fresh snow,’ she said as her brush touched the canvas.
‘Think of pale blue light suffusing the mountains.’ As she daubed paint, she explained how to block in the land, the sky, and the snow.
‘This is Norway in winter. Feel how it looks and let your imagination run free.’
There was a polite cough in the doorway, and Henry appeared. ‘Apologies,’ he muttered as he stepped into the room and slid onto a seat. ‘Lunch lingered longer than I calculated.’
Lucinda walked over to Henry and glared at the new arrival, wagging her brush. ‘We’re not interested in your dietary habits, and if you turn up late again, you’ll be barred.’ She hoisted her left breast, smoothed her vest, and almost blinded Henry with a cotton-covered nipple as she turned.
Leticia and Joy exchanged amused glances and when Lucinda’s back was turned, Leticia gave Henry a double thumbs up.
‘Use broad strokes, not too tidy, and don’t worry about the detail yet. But remember, acrylic paint dries fast, so trust your instincts.’
Lucinda instructed everyone to begin, telling them that, in between assisting them, she would pause to add to her own work and explain the techniques she was using.
An hour passed, and the room was silent with quiet concentration, broken only by the sound of the clink of water jars and the gentle rasp of brushes stroking canvas.
Lucinda wandered around, her cigarette holder clenched between her teeth as she issued advice, both cruel and kind.
Returning to her own easel, she demonstrated the method of adding a line of dark pines and a red cabin far away in the distance.
‘Snow isn’t just white,’ she said, ‘and it is soft. Use grey or violet in the shadows to capture the mood.’ She stood back to study her work before telling the class to continue.
Standing by Henry’s easel, Lucinda pursed her lips. ‘It’s not a bloody postcard to mail home to your mother,’ she rudely commented. ‘You’re overthinking it. Be a bit wild!’
As Lucinda moved away, she missed Henry’s one-finger salute, unaware that he’d deliberately focused his painting on being postcard perfect, knowing that Audrey would love it.
Another hour passed, and when stewards appeared with refreshments, Lucinda concluded the class. ‘Well, you’ve all had a go,’ she said, ‘and some of it isn’t bad, but I doubt that many of you will want to take your efforts home.’
‘I rather think that’s for us to decide,’ Henry piped up.
But Lucinda merely shrugged, and turning to the table where the stewards had placed laden trays, she picked up a glass of wine. ‘None of the tea and cake nonsense in here,’ she said. ‘If anyone fancies a livener, help yourselves.’
Chairs scraped back as the artists dived towards the drinks, almost knocking over easels, such was their haste.
‘Ah, that’s hit the spot,’ a silver-haired woman sighed as she guzzled a glass of Chardonnay ‘I’m sure I’d paint better after a drink.’
Lucinda raised her glass. ‘Indeed, Picasso drank absinthe and look where that led him.’
In minutes, the class had transformed, and as everyone admired each other’s work, the room took on a new energy.
‘I think my mountains are having an identity crisis,’ Leticia said as she stared at pillow-like blobs of paint on her unfinished work.
‘My fjord is slipping off the canvas,’ Henry added and sipped an excellent malt whisky.
‘Climate change,’ Leticia nodded. ‘It’s a melting glacier, very contemporary.’
They both agreed that Joy’s fishing village nestling on the edge of a fjord was excellent.
Across the room, guests gathered around one man’s painting, where bold, indistinguishable purple sprawled across the space. ‘The Northern Lights,’ he declared proudly, with the confidence of a man committed to his vision.
‘Ah, yes …’ someone murmured, as puzzled eyes looked on. ‘Very interpretive.’
‘A splendid abstract,’ Lucinda cut in, swigging her third glass of wine. ‘Nature is wild, just like this painting.’
Drinks and compliments flowed, and Lucinda turned on a backing track of a medley of popular seventies and eighties songs. ‘To art!’ she declared. Her face, more splattered than her palette, appeared like a Jackson Pollock and grabbing hold of Henry’s hands, Lucinda began to dance.
The class cheered, and Henry downed his whisky. Remembering her earlier advice to be a bit wild, he carefully sidestepped Lucinda’s liberated breasts and joined in.
‘What a great class, and Henry is such a good sport,’ Leticia said to Joy as she stood alongside, swaying her hips to the music and clapping her hands.
Joy was still watching Henry. ‘Yes, he is,’ she said softly, almost to herself.
‘There seems to be more to our Henry than meets the eye,’ Leticia added with a knowing smile. While she began to dance, Leticia glanced at her friend and saw that Joy’s gaze lingered on Henry, her expression wistful.
At that moment, Leticia wondered if Joy’s heart was beginning to loosen. She crossed her fingers and hoped that, between the two, there might be more than friendship.
Even if neither of them quite realised it yet.