Inge is appalled and even Tricia looks as though she’s trying very hard to raise her eyebrows where the effects of the latest batch of botulism are starting to wear off.
‘I SAID, I was REALLY sorry about that,’ I clarify for the rest of the party.
‘No, it’s OK,’ Margot assures me, eyes still wide. ‘Feedback’s a gift, as they said on my gold DofE—’
The rest of us look blank.
‘Oh, sorry, the Gold Duke of Edinburgh Award – to complete the process, you have to meet your assessors and talk about what you’ve done and what you can do better in future. A bit like this! Only with fewer near-death experiences. Usually.’
Margot, I understand now, isn’t a bad person. She’s just inexperienced of the ways of the world beyond her £36,000-a-year boarding school and (en)titled social circle. And yes, I know exactly how much her schooling cost because old Alice Googled it. Back when she had a contraband phone and hadn’t learned about things like ‘honesty’, ‘humility’ and shades of grey.
‘So anyway, I’m going to cut loose more!’ Margot announces with a flourish, beckoning over a heart-stopping beautiful barman bearing a tray of aquavit and downing two shots in quick succession. ‘Mmm, umami …’
‘Good for you!’ Melissa gives Margot a slap on the back that almost makes her aquavit go down the wrong way, before adding, ‘And maybe tell people you can’t swim next time you’re near open water, OK?’
‘Oh yes, that.’ Margot blushes.
Inge looks momentarily surprised. Then she nods sagely, murmuring something in Danish.
‘What’s that?’ Melissa demands.
‘I said, “textbook stuff”,’ Inge clarifies. ‘It’s your classic overachiever: self-conscious about the seemingly simple skills or activities they haven’t yet mastered. A lot of highly successful people can’t drive, for instance—’
I experience a momentary a tinge of disappointment that I can both swim and drive.
‘Or cook,’ Inge goes on. I ruffle my feathers with tentative pride, wondering whether I can put my sub-par culinary skills down to overcompensating in other areas of life. ‘Though of course, this can just be laziness,’ Inge continues.
Oh …
‘Well, I’m going to sign up for swimming lessons as soon as we get home,’ Margot announces. ‘And stop treating life like one long competition for who can accrue the most House Points …’ She tails off in what I suspect is a rose-tinted recollection of her glory days at school. Playing lacrosse and snaffling buns in the prefects’ common room, probably, I think. Although it’s also possible that I’m projecting my own Mallory Towers fantasies here. Melissa wasn’t the only one who liked Enid Blyton, I am now prepared to admit.
‘Great,’ Inge moves us on. ‘And you, Tricia?’
‘Oh, god, me …’ Tricia puffs out her cheeks and adjusts her bra. Those padded T-shirt bras take an age to dry. She’ll catch a chill if she’s not careful … I worry. Then I stop: Shut up, Alice! You’re boring yourself …
The beautiful barman passes back with a depleted tray of shots so I take one to silence my inner monologue. The potato liquor is as much of an assault on my senses as expected. It’s almost … chewy. I try not to gag.
‘I’m going to think about what’s really important rather than running away all the time,’ Tricia starts, ‘to Ibiza, or Arizona, or … well … here. In fact, I might stop running all together – doesn’t do anything for the knees at my age: makes me want to throw up most of the time and I’m pretty sure it’s contributed to making my face look like a collapsed mineshaft – without “help”,’ she adds, tapping the area underneath her eye and feeling her brow to check it’s still eerily smooth. ‘I’ve spent the past thirty years grafting, seeking out the celebrity waft – Phil Collins, Anneka Rice, et al – dry ice machine turned up to eleven. But all it got me was fired from a job I hated and dumped by a man with a hairy back (and I mean really hairy – like he was wearing a jumper. Clogged up the shower no end – as if a woodland creature had taken up residence in the plughole). Anyway, the point is, it wasn’t great. Overall, I mean. So maybe it’s time for change. To think about what comes next.’ We nod, supportively. ‘I’m no good at doing nothing – The Shipping Forecast followed by Gardeners’ Question Time banging on about a pensioner’s bush? No thanks. I need to work. I’ll get another job, somewhere. And it’ll be marginally more interesting than the previous one. But I’ll stop running. Spend more time with the dogs. And my son.’
‘Right, yes,’ I say, in as supportive a tone as I can, trying not to dwell on the fact that her son came after the dogs in Tricia’s list of priorities. Again.
‘He’s all grown-up now, of course. Married, even. Pretty girl, nice eyes. Works as an accountant,’ She pulls a face. ‘But in general, a good egg. And he’s turned into a very pleasant human being, in spite of his parents. So it would be nice to see more of him …’ She looks wistful and Inge lays a hand on her arm.
‘Reconciling with your son would be a very good plan,’ she says. ‘However much they annoy us, kids are for life and family is important.’ Here, Inge shoots me a look. ‘So we need to work at these relationships,’ she adds.
Melissa gives me an arm punch. ‘D’you think she means us, too?’
‘Ow! Yes, yes I do.’ I sigh. ‘But you have to stop doing that – it really hurts!’
‘Oh, come on! Build a bridge. Get over it!’ Melissa scoffs as I resolve to work on my own unique Melissa-greeting. A sisterly Chinese burn perhaps? I wonder. A sibling wedgie?
‘Melissa? Are you volunteering to go next?’ Inge interrupts.
‘Me?’ Melissa asks.
‘Yes, go on: what’s your plan for moving forward?’
‘Erm …’ she hesitates for a moment before coming up with. ‘Carry on being a legend’?’
‘Try again,’ Inge tells her, firmly though not unkindly.
‘Umm, OK … well.’ Melissa frowns. ‘Well, I suppose, I’m going to try not to live in the past so much. What with all that’s coming up—’ she looks at me here ‘—I need to get better at taking each day as it comes. Living in the now.’
Inge looks as though someone has just presented her with Alexander Skarsgård, starkers – a bottle of schnapps in each hand. ‘That’s it!’ she tells Melissa, slapping the table in triumph. ‘Well done.’
‘Have we left anyone out?’ Tricia asks, looking around as I try to shrink further down into the bench to evade scrutiny. ‘We’ve done Margot, me, Melissa …’ Her eyes rest on me. ‘Alice!’
‘Ah yes, Alice!’ Inge turns to me. ‘Anything you’d like to share?’
I’ve learned so much over the past few days. Where to start?
‘I’m going to stop being an idiot. I’m going to put my own oxygen mask on first—’ I nod to Inge, then catch sight of Melissa ‘—and I’m going to spend time with the people I care about.’
‘And forget about perfection,’ Inge adds, swishing her unicorn’s mane.
Margot spills some of her spud juice at this. ‘Easy for you to say …’ she slurs, as four pairs of eyes swivel towards her, surprised by this outburst.
Inge smiles. ‘Ah, you and Alice and your perfection!’ She shakes her head. ‘I said it to her and I’ll say it to you: perfection doesn’t exist.’
‘Show her your arse!’ I heckle, remembering what first won me around to Inge’s way of thinking. Then I realise the inappropriateness of what I’ve just demanded and backtrack. ‘Sorry, sorry, I—’
‘No apologies!’ the other women bark at me in unison.
‘Right. No. As you were – bum out! Or not, whatever you like …’ Befuddled, I drink more, instead – as Inge obliges. Standing up to give us the full benefit of her impressive stature, she drops her trousers and bends over to flash Margot her behind.
‘Battle scars!’ she tells her, adding, ‘we all have them, whether you can see them or not. And we need to own them.’ At this moment, the insanely hot barman passes again, replenishing our gl
asses, followed by Otto, delivering snacks (for all of us) and snogs (exclusively for Melissa). Inge pulls her trousers up, in no sort of hurry and as though it were the most normal thing in the world to get your arse out in public, then sits, slowly, as Tricia, Margot and I down our drinks for fortification.
Stubble-rashed and light-headed on lust, my sister promises she’ll see Otto before she goes before turning back to the group.
We finish a final round of drinks in comfortable, companionable silence, each contemplating all that has happened and cementing the pledges we have made for the future: to be more honest. To be more Viking.
‘You’ve done well.’ Inge stands finally and announces that it’s time to leave. ‘You have a big day tomorrow, you’ll want to rest up.’ She tells us that Magnus – here we all pull a face – is back on his feet so he’ll be leading the running part and pushing us hard. ‘So come on, I’ll drive us home.’
‘Did you say drive?’ Tricia is baffled. ‘Aren’t we on an island?’
Inge looks at her. ‘No?’
‘What?’ Melissa’s head snaps up. ‘But we came by boat …’
‘I thought you just wanted the adventure,’ says Inge, frowning. ‘We’re not on an island, it’s a tombolo.’
‘A tom … what?’ Tricia asks again as Margot slaps her forehead.
‘A tombolo! Of course!’ Margot exclaims, delighted at the opportunity to finally make use of her first class (Hons) Geography degree. ‘A land mass attached to the mainland, by a spit or, in this case, a road—’
‘Wait, so hang on, there was no need come by boat?’ Melissa checks, doubtfully. Inge shakes her head. ‘Shit a brick …’ is Melissa’s instant, unguarded response. Her eyes widen as she turns, slowly, to face the rest of us. ‘Sorry …’ she starts to say, before Margot interrupts by walloping my sister on the arm.
‘Never apologise!’ she says, before adding, ‘I wouldn’t have missed tonight for the world!’
Sixteen
Burr-burrr-burrrr! Burr-burrr-burrrr!
A piercing, penetrating, din makes me wrap the pillow around my head.
BURR-BURRR-BURRRR!
Swimming up through layers of sleep, pain splices my temples and the terrible brass cacophony seems to sear my very soul.
Make it stop, I beg, silently: MAKE THE HURTY STOP!
Peering out from the underside of my goose-down armour, I blink, tentatively, then screw my eyes shut in an attempt to un-see the spectre of Magnus, bearing down on the bunk beds, traditional Viking horn in hand.
Oh dear god, no …
His man-bun is standing proud; his beard, spreading out like a frizzy cloud after forays into braiding over recent days, fish-hook and holestone necklaces dangling, chest, exposed.
Urgh …
‘Rise and shine!’ he gloats.
I want to tell him to piss off and that I’d prefer to caffeinate and hope for the best rather than any rising and shining right now, but find my tongue still hasn’t woken up. I feel desiccated, dehydrated, drained of tears and – possibly – still drunk. It’s a mere three hours after our bumpy ride home from Valhalla and our sadistic leader, now fully recovered, apparently, is tooting his trumpet with glee.
BURR-BURRR-BURRRR!
Tricia sits bolt upright in the opposite bunk, looking dishevelled, disturbed and with a hint of the Hellraiser about her.
‘You OK?’ Margot swings down from the top bunk. She, at least, still looks relatively fresh.
‘Yeah, I’m OK … I just had an awful dream.’ Tricia cradles her head in her hands, trying to protect it from the noise.
‘You poor thing!’ Margot looks concerned. ‘What happened?’
‘We were going to have to go running barefoot through the woods on no breakfast.’ Tricia shudders at the recollection.
‘Well, bad luck.’ Magnus grins. ‘Because today is your Halloween! Now, up! No talking! Just moving! All of you!’
I roll my way out of bed and attempt to stand, unsteady on my legs as a young, hungover, foal.
‘Where’s Melissa? Tricia whispers, looking around. ‘Shagging again?’
‘No!’ There’s a growl from the top bunk and the blanket ripples into life to reveal my sister.
‘It’s the final stage of your Viking challenge, ladies. Get ready to go berserk!’ Magnus broadcasts, back on infuriatingly irrepressible form.
Where are the rogue berries when you need them? I wonder, blackly. But there’s no time to ponder. We’re shooed out of the house just as Inge and the children are beginning to stir, then loaded like cattle into the family’s bumpy trailer.
Empty stomachs gurgle as we rumble along the road to the forest. Margot pukes over the side of the truck and then wipes her mouth with a sleeve.
‘That’s better,’ she says, as the rest of us look on in alarm.
Tricia begins rummaging for something in her pocket, retrieving a small, gold cylinder that she twists up to reveal a waxy, crimson stump.
‘Are you putting lipstick on?’ Melissa asks, mystified.
‘It’s not lipstick, it’s war paint,’ Tricia tells Melissa, pursing her lips and applying a thick layer. ‘You need more of it as you get older—’
‘Vikings!’ She’s cut off by a holler from the driver’s seat. ‘Be at one with your thoughts!’
‘You what?’ Melissa yells back.
‘Shh!’ Magnus motions.
‘Oh! OK. Sorry!’
We comply, exchanging only the odd smile or nod of camaraderie. There’s an overwhelming sense of anticipation buzzing between us – as though this really is the moment we’ve been building up to – not just over the course of this week, but in our lives to date. As though going berserk really might turn out to be the purest expression of who we are and what we’re here for.
We are each to be ‘released’ at various points in the vast woodland with the simple instruction to find ourselves and so our way home, by embracing the ‘intense psychical and mental training’ we’ve received so far.
Today, we prove our mettle, I think. Today, we test our basic animal instinct to run for our lives. Or, at the very least, for our next meal …
Today, we go berserk.
‘Right,’ Magnus announces, as he screeches the truck to a stop. ‘Proud Chest? You’re first!’
At this, Tricia stands unsteadily makes to wriggle out of her leggings. Magnus looks horrified.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting undressed?’ Tricia whispers, as though aware she’s still not supposed to be talking. ‘Don’t we do this bit naked?’
‘No!’ He blinks rapidly.
‘No?’
No!’
‘Oh.’
‘Why do people always assume Scandinavians want to get naked all the time?’ Magnus looks bewildered.
‘It’s not that—’ Tricia remonstrates, at which point I think, Yes: that. Exactly that. ‘It’s just,’ she appeals to the group, ‘didn’t Inge say something about getting nude?’ We nod in support.
‘Well,’ Magnus moderates his tone, ‘there may be an element of nudity. Inge always goes on about the nakedness—’ he shakes his head as though this is just another of their marital spats writ large ‘—but that’s just an added extra. It comes later,’ is all he’ll reveal. ‘Ancillary’ nudity? Everyone’s favourite kind … ‘For now, clothes on. ALL OF YOU,’ he instructs, sternly, lest the rest of us are overcome by the urge to show him our bits.fn1 ‘And no talking!’ he adds, though on this one I fear several of the Icelandic horses have already bolted. Still, since it’s currently so cold I can see my own breath, I’m relieved that we aren’t expected to disrobe just yet. ‘Get ready to run and we’ll see you when – or should I say if – you make it back!’
There is an audible gulp.
‘Good luck …’ Melissa whispers, as Tricia clambers over the side, presenting her arse to my face for the second time in twenty-four hours. ‘Or rather, make your own luck, Viking style!’ she adds, disregarding Magnus’s
no-talking policy. Tricia gives a half smile and lowers herself down to ground level, telling us all earnestly that she’ll see us on the other side.
‘Run! Run like you stole something!’ Melissa yells after her as Tricia jogs towards the forest.
‘Shhh!’ Magnus hisses.
‘Sorry!’ Melissa shouts, then turning back to us, adds, ‘Not sorry!’
Once Tricia has vanished from view, we drive on, further into unknown territory. ‘Night Wolf’ is next. Margot vaults over the side of the vehicle effortlessly and sprints into the distance with a double thumbs-up before disappearing into the dark forest.
‘Just you and me then,’ Melissa whispers, slinging an arm around my shoulders as we judder off, driving cross-country for another few minutes.
Eventually, the truck slows to a stop and Magnus twists his head to look back from the driver’s seat. ‘Strong Legs? Are you ready?’
‘I was born ready!’ is Melissa’s bravado-fuelled reply. ‘Let’s do this!’ She executes an elaborate commando roll to the forest floor before bouncing up and doing a few air punches to psyche herself up.
She’s a loon, but I love her. I watch my sister go bumbling off and hope against hope that we all come out of this in one piece.
And then there was one.
Light begins spiking through the trees and I take in great lungfuls of cool morning air in an attempt to stave off carsickness/alcohol-induced nausea before I’m delivered to my drop-off point.
‘Time to shine, Aslög!’ Magnus says, finally, as I am unceremoniously turfed out.
Twigs snap beneath my feet as I bat away branches and run. Really run. Heart pounding so hard it’s threatening to break free from my chest and outstrip me at any moment. My sense of direction has improved slightly since the start of my Viking training but, if anything, my spatial awareness appears to have regressed with the addition of a hangover. I ricochet off trees, adrenaline surging around my body until it stings – almost like sunburn. And then … and then …
Something amazing happens.
Momentum takes over and despite an angry pain in my shoulders, feet that have been lacerated and shins currently seizing up, I carry on, impervious to any obstacles now. My legs blur beneath me and – suddenly – I’m flying. Suddenly, I am an uplifting montage at the end of a film: a hero chasing through a crowded airport to stop the plane in time to get his girl; the boy in a rites of passage classic breaking free from his parents; Butch Cassidy and/or the Sundance Kid, charging out, guns blazing. I am Forrest Gump. I am Rocky, I, II, III and IV. I am the entire cast of Chariots of Fire. I am … Hang on, why they always men? I think, outraged. Don’t women ever run in films? Unless they’re being chased by a serial killer? Where are the badass women? Incensed to find that I can’t think of a single example of sisters running for themselves, I experience a surge of extra vigour at the injustice until I am a ball of kinetic energy.
Gone Viking Page 30