by Karen Swan
Because of the ban prohibiting spectators on the ice at all, the crowds were forced back towards the streets and shuffling along the banks, everyone restless and wanting a ringside view. Lee gripped Jasper’s hand tightly as they walked through the compacted snow. It was slow-going, progress sometimes limited to a shuffle, and she quickly realized they could walk five miles and still not get to the ice’s edge; but a mile or so along, she chanced upon a spot that opened up, one back from the ice, behind a particularly short woman. ‘Here,’ she said, bending down and lifting Jasper onto her shoulders. He was getting heavy, but she could manage it for a short time at least. They had been walking for over half an hour – the race was surely due to start soon.
Giant screens had been set up at intervals, the cameras panning over the racers as they stood, herded like cattle, all of them jostling for a few more inches towards the front, all of them trying to stay warm.
‘There he is, I see Sam!’ Jasper cried, drumming his heels against her arms as he pointed towards the beautiful, dark-eyed man on the screen who wielded an unheard-of power over her. He had a bib on, with the number 111 – Lee liked it, it felt auspicious. He was wearing navy skating skins, gloves, a hat with a headlamp and goggles too, in case it snowed. She felt another pitch of nerves for him, but also excitement too. She had never seen him skate before, but she remembered Liam’s awe; he had to be good. A banner appeared on the bottom of the screen, showing his name and then: Son of Evert Meyer, runner-up 1997.
Would it anger him to be referred to in relation to his father?
The racers all looked towards the left, as though someone was talking to them, and they seemed to suddenly move as one, a concentrated hush descending upon them as physical agitation gave way to sudden focus. They collectively assumed a hunched pose, one hand for counterbalancing in front, hands pulled into fists.
Lee held her breath and the crowd fell quiet as the racers kept the position, poised and ready for the ultimate endurance event . . . And then the starter’s gun went and they were off in a messy clatter of metal on ice as the pack surged forward, everyone trying to get some momentum and find some space, find a rhythm.
The crowd erupted, cheering like it was a football World Cup final as the skaters’ blades quickly found purchase. She could hear the strength of Jasper’s cheers vibrating through his body onto hers as they watched the action on the giant screen, waiting for the moment – any minute now – when the skaters would be passing in front of them. It was impossible to see down the straight without standing on the ice, but they could hear the crowd’s roars steadily rolling towards them like a wave, and within a few minutes the pack was right there, blades flashing, arms locked behind their backs, heads down but eyes up, like panthers on the hunt.
She saw Sam flash past, one of many and yet distinct to her. He was at the back of the front third, gone again in the next moment, too many other bodies behind him to keep him in frame. But she had seen the set of his jaw in profile, the quiet grit. This was exactly the start he’d wanted.
Stage one of making his father proud was complete.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
They had arrived back at the farmhouse, still before first light, and set up camp in the kitchen, Aggie setting a match to the pre-set fire as Lee carried a small tub chair through from the sitting room. They’d made more rounds of breakfast – coffee, hot chocolate, spiced buns – in an effort to rally their beleaguered bodies from the brutally early start, and Jasper had soldiered on for several hours, cheering enthusiastically at the small television and kissing the screen every time there was a close-up of Sam; Lee felt like doing much the same herself, and Aggie too, no doubt. They were all so proud of him, all in disbelief that he was out there, right now, skating through the dark and the cold, gliding further from them with every stroke as he toured the Friesland region of the country while they sat in the farmhouse kitchen.
Jasper was asleep now though, his body clock scrambled by the pre-dawn excursion, curled up in the chair, his thumb in his mouth. Aggie had draped a blanket over him and positioned a cushion under his head to keep him from getting a stiff neck. The curtains were still drawn even though it was now mid-morning, adding to their cloistered, feverish sequester, the farm dogs stretched out on the tiled floor beside them in rare blissful languor. The house was womb-like and warm, and Lee felt relaxed now that Evert’s stern, disapproving presence wasn’t lurking around corners. Aggie kept getting up at regular intervals to throw another log on the fire or make hot chocolate or cut some boterkoek. Lee sensed she was enjoying spoiling them. Mothering them, even.
‘Where’s he now?’ Aggie asked, coming back from having put a load of washing in the dryer. She was excited, but also jittery, biting down on already-short nails; she perhaps, more than anyone, would benefit from Sam winning this and her husband finding some peace at last. But if Sam didn’t win . . .?
‘Ninth, it looks like. Hoog is in first, Langen’s in eighth.’
‘Hmm, eighth means nothing,’ Aggie muttered, watching the screen with laser-focus. ‘Langen’s just biding his time. He won’t go too early. He’s not got the tank to lead from here. Not when there’s another sixty miles to go.’
Sam was right on his tail, his right skate only inches from the back of Langen’s, matching his stroke as perfectly as a sculling crew. Lee sensed it was Langen Sam was mentally battling out there, that it didn’t matter if Langen was currently placed eighth and not first. Langen was the favourite and Sam wasn’t going to let him get away; Langen would have his game plan and Sam’s was to be his shadow; where Langen went, so would he.
‘Hoog will regret breaking away first,’ Aggie continued knowledgeably, her eyes never leaving the screen. It was clear she was as much an expert as her husband, having been exposed to precious little else all these years. She sank back into her armchair, the seat cushion saggy and faded, a few feather tips peeking out through the fabric. ‘He’s doing all the hard work up there on his own. He’ll be burnt out by Bolsward, mark my words. He’ll be lucky to be in the front ten by the end.’
‘Sam’s looking steady,’ Lee said hopefully.
Aggie squinted as the cameras switched to an overhead shot. ‘Does it look to you like he’s twisting there, do you think? Would you say he’s dragging his right leg a little? Your eyes are better than mine.’
Lee wasn’t sure about that; where her son was concerned, Aggie had the vision of a hawk, it seemed. She peered closer too. ‘Ummm . . .’ She scrutinized his form. ‘Yeah, maybe a tiny bit.’
Aggie’s mouth set in a grim line as she sat forward and she settled her elbows on her knees, her chin resting in her hands. ‘He had a hip injury after the Berlin marathon. I told him to get physio on it, but he became so busy with promoting his book . . .’ She bit her lip, shaking her head as she watched the tiny screen.
Lee looked back at the race, feeling apprehensive now. Sam had two Olympians in front of him – he couldn’t possibly take them on with an injury.
They sat in tense, but also easy, silence, both of them glued to the action. Jasper was fast off, his cheeks growing ever rosier as he slept in front of the fire.
Aggie gasped suddenly, making Lee startle too as they both saw the collision happen as if in slow motion – the clash of a blade against a knee, knocking both racers off balance and sending them sprawling in an ungainly heap. It was Krol and Verheul, the skaters in second and third. Aggie gave another horrified gasp as the chasing pack, including Langen and Sam, immediately behind, were forced to leap over them. Lee’s hands flew to her mouth as she saw Sam reflexively spring up to miss skating into them, his arms windmilling wildly. Langen, slightly to his right, didn’t have to jump quite so high but Krol’s arm swung up as Sam was mid-leap, knocking him off balance too. Momentum carried him over but he landed heavily and awkwardly on his left foot, struggling to remain upright and not go over too. Langen was already recovering and pulling away again, and Hoog had a clear lead now that the loss of Krol and Verhe
ul right behind him opened up the gap between him and the rest.
‘Come on, my boy,’ Aggie whispered, biting frantically on her nails. ‘Come on.’
Lee felt like she couldn’t breathe as she watched Sam recover his balance and reset himself again. But Langen was now several paces ahead, with clear water between the two of them as he fought to convert his automatic jump to sixth place to fifth instead.
‘Come on, Sam,’ Lee murmured, hardly able to bear it. Had he hurt his left leg now? Was his right leg still looking fatigued? Would he be able to catch up with Langen?
Lee’s leg was jigging, her hands wound tightly in her hair as she and his mother watched him dig in. The camera was tight upon his face now and she could see every muscle taut and firing.
‘. . . My God, I think he’s doing it,’ she whispered, as somehow he began to close the gap on Langen again.
‘Come on Sam, come on!’ Aggie willed as he lengthened his stride, steadily, surely, getting to within two strides of Langen again. She looked back at Lee with a delighted smile. ‘His father was right, the fight is up here,’ she said, tapping her head. ‘Hoog will be gone by the next stop. This race is between these two now.’
Lee blinked, adjusting to the brightness, as she and Jasper carefully crunched across the snow, the farmhouse at their backs and Aggie waving at the door. Night had been cast off to reveal a sky that was a soaring pale blue, just a few threads of cloud gauze streaming like gymnasts’ ribbons. The landscape all around them felt vast, frozen and empty, the air as clean as a flute with only a few songbirds singing in the bare branches of the splayed trees.
They turned and waved to Aggie a final time as they got to the water’s edge and stepped carefully onto the ice. It was a thick, opaque frosted white, but she could see shavings of slush on the surface; the thaw had definitely begun. It was helping the racers, of course, that the weather was being so kind – there were no side-winds blowing snow onto the ice as in ’63, no arctic temperatures to make limbs sluggish and heavy, but it was clear the forecast had been fractionally, crucially, out. Evert had been right – those amateur racers for whom the midnight finish was a target might well find themselves off the ice earlier than that.
Not Sam, though. He was going to be done within the hour. She had left it as long as she dared, wanting to stay glued to the television and to see him as long as she could, but they couldn’t risk not being there when he passed. They had promised he would extra see them.
‘Stop at the bridge,’ Lee called as Jasper immediately settled into an easy glide, his little arms swinging side to side as he set off. The banner was rolled up in his hand – she wasn’t even allowed to carry it.
She looked around at the countryside as they passed in a gentle schoonrijden, trying to see Sam’s boyhood self playing in these fields, skating on these frozen channels. Had he had a happy childhood, playing here on these very waterways, or had his father’s demons robbed it of joy and made it a trial to endure?
They got to the little bridge within minutes, having to duck to pass under the low bricked hump, arriving at the Bonkevaart shortly after. It was four times the size of the one they had arrived by; a wide, white motorway, flat and glistening under the gentle December sun.
They looked left and right but there was no one on the ice as far as they could see. There was no one anywhere. It was splendid isolation indeed, a beautifully delicate and pale watercolour of just sky, ice and the bleached blonde grasses on the banks, three metres high and toppling over themselves in vast hummocks.
‘Come on, this way, I’ll drag you,’ she said, taking Jasper’s hand in hers and skating fast for a few steps, then swinging her arm forward and letting him go so that he continued past her, his arms out to the sides, wide and stable as he felt the wind on his face. She could see he felt free, joyously happy, and they continued the game for perhaps half a mile, laughing, playing on the ice, enjoying the day’s brightness.
Soon enough, they came upon the triple windmills, and opposite, the lone one with the small loading dock Sam had told them about.
‘Right, over here,’ she said, leading the way, just as a distant sound came to her ear. ‘Wait – what’s that?’ She looked around and up. There was nothing to see on the ice, but in the sky she glimpsed a small dark speck. ‘Oh God, I think that’s the helicopter!’ she said excitedly, clapping her hands together. Sam was going to be passing right in front of them? They had timed it to perfection. She couldn’t imagine how exhausted he must be. Whilst they had been sitting (and sleeping) on feather-filled chairs and munching on cakes, warm in front of a fire, he had been out here, in the dark and the cold, and now the brightness and the cold; he hadn’t stopped moving once since he’d left them five and three-quarter hours earlier.
‘Yes!’ Jasper hollered, punching his arms up.
‘Okay, let’s get off the ice and into position. No, don’t rush, if we can’t see the racers then they’re not that close. We’ve got a good few minutes yet.’
The dock was set above the water’s edge, but the steps were narrow tread, and the wooden slats – and, more pertinently, the gaps between them – were not conducive to skating blades.
‘Careful here,’ she warned, pointing to the gaps. ‘Keep your blades at right angles to these, like this,’ she said, demonstrating with her own foot. ‘We don’t want your blade slotting down there, now, do we? You could end up twisting your ankle. Let me go up first and I’ll help you up.’ She held her hands out and balanced him as he trod onto the wooden steps. ‘Okay, now, be really careful here, avoid the gaps. Mind the gap,’ she said with a smile, as though he had any idea of the famous London tube slogan.
He put his hands on the handrail and they both leaned over, looking for the skaters. They were easy to spot now, dark, fast-moving shapes, growing ever larger. Lee felt her heart rate increase as she wondered how Sam was doing, where he was in the race now. He’d been in a tightly held third position when they’d left the house but, if Aggie was correct, then Hoog should have dropped back by now, unable to keep up the too-fast pace he had set early.
‘Oh my goodness, they’re so close,’ Lee exclaimed, looking back at Jasper. ‘Open up the banner, get it ready.’
The safety-pinned pillowcase was suspended between two poles like a scroll, and carefully – the pink tip of his tongue sticking out between his milk teeth – he unravelled it against his legs. It was upside down and back to front from here, but when he held it up . . .
The drone of the helicopter was loud now, the cameraman clearly visible from the open sides, the camera pointing out and towards the ice like a giant black eye. Lee could feel the vibrations through the air, making her bones hum, and for a moment, she was back there, in a different landscape, a different time: hot and red, brown faces and black hair, huge Chinooks and Apaches buzzing up and down the airspace, helmeted soldiers in the backs, anti-tank missiles pointed towards the ground, the buildings, the people . . .
The helicopter was all but overhead, the sound of the blades clashing and sluicing, so close now.
‘Mama!’ Jasper’s voice brought her back and she turned to see him pointing to the ice. Exactly as Aggie had predicted, Hoog had fallen back, his bright orange skins not what came to the eye first, nor even Langen’s red-and-black suit.
‘Oh my God, he’s winning!’ Lee screamed in disbelief, throwing her arms in the air and wishing she could jump. Sam’s cheeks were flooded with a deep port-coloured stain, his head dipped, his mouth open as he tried to breathe, but she could see a small smile at the very edges as his eyes met hers – theirs – telling them he was going to do this. He had the reserves, she could see it in the way he moved. He had the belief and the mental strength to outgun Langen on the final sprint.
‘Yes, Sam! Go on! Go on! You’re doing it! Keep going!’ she yelled, so hard her voice was immediately hoarse.
But something was wrong. Something else was already in motion, her head was already turning back, as she realized Jasper wasn’t
cheering, the smile fading from her face as she realized what Jasper was pointing to. Not the skaters but—
She saw it in the last moment, same as Sam, as his eyes lifted off her and he saw – too late – the banner pole on the ice, right where his left foot was about to go. It had slid out from its precarious safety-pinned hold . . .
There wasn’t even time to scream, as the pole rolled beneath the blade and his leg shot out in front of him, sending him down hard on the ice and setting Langen free as he shot past without missing a beat. Everything went silent to Lee – the helicopter, Jasper’s cries – as she saw Sam roll to a stop across the ice, his body in an awkward position.
‘Sam!’ Jasper was clattering down the steps and onto the ice, skating over to him, crying. ‘Please don’t be dead! Please don’t be dead!’
‘Jasper, come back!’ she yelled, running awkwardly over the deck too. The chasing pack was only metres away now, sensing an opportunity. Second place was still up for grabs.
The helicopter was hovering, leaving Langen to lengthen his lead as Sam groaned, struggling to get up.
‘Sam, I’m sorry!’ Jasper sobbed, falling to his knees and clutching his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Sam!’
Lee was just stepping onto the ice as she saw Sam’s head whip up. ‘You idiot! What the fuck have you done?’
She stopped, stunned by the vitriol, as Jasper fell back onto his bottom, scrabbling to get away like a frightened rabbit. Sam’s eyes were bulging, his face puce with rage. Suddenly, he looked just like his father. ‘Look what you’ve done!’ he spat as the chasing pack of racers sped past, blades glinting like knives in the afternoon sun. Leaving him behind. He pulled his legs in and got up to his feet again, wincing with pain. And with a dip of his head and a furious yell of frustration, he set off again without another word.