Gone Viking

by Helen Russell

  I shrug. ‘I’ll take that.’

  ‘My Vikings!’ Inge comes over, with Tricia and Margot in wobbly drunken pursuit. She moves to where we’re sitting with the careful, deliberate tread of a mildly intoxicated woman and I’m overjoyed to discover that even Amazonian goddesses lose it sometimes, too. She sits down with us and passes around a bag of nuts that have materialised from the depths of her snack pack. ‘This is hygge, by the way,’ she tells us. ‘I told you you’d find it on your own: relaxing, together.’

  ‘And the nakedness?’ Margot slurs.

  ‘Optional,’ Inge responds.

  ‘And the booze?’ Tricia checks.

  Inge gives this one more thought. ‘Recommended. That or coffee. And snacks. Obviously.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Tricia claps her hands together and nearly misses.

  ‘So are you happy?’ Inge asks us all. ‘Just at this moment, I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Melissa nods and I find I have to admit that, in spite of everything – my sister’s illness, Greg, what’ll become of us when I get back – I am, too. Here. Now.

  ‘That’s all there is, isn’t there?’ I say. ‘This. Right now. We’re all just carbon, aren’t we? We get one go at life, then we make dust and become something else …’

  At this, Inge smiles.

  ‘What?’ I demand.

  ‘There’s nothing left for me to teach you! My work is done.’

  I feel suddenly peaceful, and … heavy. Happily … heavy, I think, pressing my hands down on the sand around me to ground myself. Then Melissa gives my arm a punch, so I give her a Chinese burn, before lying back to take in the panoply of stars above, experiencing a strange, bone-deep, contentment. There is a slackening off of tension, somewhere deep within – a tension I’ve never appreciated the extent of before, until it isn’t there any more. One by one, the others recline until we are five women, sprawled out in the sand under the stars, naked but for a sex fleece, a rough-hewn blanket and a Sweaty Betty hoodie between us. Lying together in the warmth of the fire, talking and laughing until our ribs hurt, I vow never to forget this moment. Whatever happens next.

  In the morning, heads are sore, hair is dreadlocked, faces are filthy and Margot somehow has a charred scrap of sausage foil adhering to her left cheek, but we are strangely serene.

  I look in the mirror and smile at the woman looking back at me. She has a split lip from some particularly exuberant berserking, unruly hair, and eyebrows in dire need of a tweezer. But her eyes are bright and alive. And she looks, I recognise now, happy. The kind of woman I wanted to be when I was a girl. There you are! I tell myself, and then, Here, I am! Battle scars and all …

  We pack up what’s left of our belongings, wash and dress. It’s strange to see my fellow Vikings in their ‘real world’ clothes for going home. Tricia’s strappy wedge sandals and white Capri pants look out of place in a Scandi farmhouse and my skinny-jeans and navy blazer combo make me look ‘a lot like a Boden catalogue reject or someone who runs a dry cleaning franchise’, as Melissa kindly points out.fn4

  Wearing shoes again is an odd experience. My feet feel as though they’ve grown a size – swollen by trench foot and scarring, probably – so that footwear is constraining and I can’t stop wriggling my toes in a bid for freedom. I might just take them off again, I think. We’re also reunited with our phones, to far less fanfare than any of us would have anticipated if you’d asked us a week ago.

  Inge presents all of us with our very own grey hessian bags to remember the week by, each containing a candle and a hunk of rye bread ‘for the journey’.

  ‘Travel light – but never go hungry,’ is how she explains this.

  ‘And keep burning stuff, Viking style?’ Melissa asks, holding the candle aloft.

  ‘Always!’ Inge grins.

  At this, Melissa initiates a group hug, hauling me in and near-crushing my lungs. The usual.

  After breakfast and several cups of strong coffee (what else?), Inge sends the children out with Magnus so we can have ‘proper goodbyes’. She speaks to each of us in turn, imparting her final, private words of wisdom and encouragement.

  When she holds me by the shoulders, I feel like I’m going to cry. I can’t wait to see Charlotte and Thomas but a part of me doesn’t want to leave this place.

  ‘You’re strong,’ Inge tells me. ‘You’re ready.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I can’t help asking, at which point her expression shifts and I see a flash of the steeliness I’ve come to admire so much.

  ‘I’m speaking, aren’t I?’ she says.

  I nod. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’m sure.’ She smiles.

  And I believe her. Because, now, I’m a Viking.

  Epilogue

  Six months later …

  I push open a heavy door, unsure of what I’ll find the other side, this time. The corridor smells strongly of hand sanitiser and sweat. But then I realise that the latter might just be me. I’m out of breath after a sprint from the car in the rain and anxious about being late. I’m still not a late person.

  And yet here I am.

  Late.

  Bloody Greg, I think. It’s Greg’s fault. He had told me he’d pick the kids up at 9am – leaving plenty of time for me to get here. But was he there at 9am? Or even 9.30am? Was he Newsnight …

  I still have a few of what Inge would term ‘anger issues’, but these days they’re out in the open. I don’t bury things, any more; I vent. And I’ve stopped making that constant series of self-adjustments, monitoring what I say or do to please other people. I’m slowly learning to let down my guard, thanks to my Viking education. Because whatever backstory we construct for ourselves, I’ve realised, it’s what we actually do, moving forward, that matters.

  When I got home from the retreat, Greg and I embarked upon a last-ditch attempt to save our marriage, by talking openly and honestly. I was mindful of becoming one of those women you read about in magazines who jacks in their marriage after a weekend in Magaluf, or during a mid-life crisis post magic mushroom trip – then spends the next decade regretting it. Though when I mentioned these fears to Melissa, she laughed for a good hour.

  ‘Have you met yourself?’ She pointed out that, Mr Teeth aside, I had never done anything rash in my life. This was a slight reassurance. Greg and I decided to postpone the extension and – shortly after that – our marriage, with a trial separation. We even saw a marriage counsellor but she told us, unprompted, that we’d be better off calling it a day. And strangely, since then, there’s been an overwhelming sense of relief all around. I like living alone, or at least, just me and the kids. I can now do a shop to fill the fridge and feel confident that it won’t all be eaten by nightfall. Plus there’s no one judging me on how many cushions I have. As a result, I feel about ten years’ younger and half a stone lighter (despite all bathroom scale evidence to the contrary).

  Only this morning, I called my soon-to-be-ex-husband a ‘pube-face’ – a delightfully puerile insult I’m currently enjoying that Charlotte told me she’d learned in the playground at school. A term that I pretended to be cross about but secretly relished. Greg looked sincerely apologetic, said he was ‘really, really sorry’ for being so late and that he had a job interview next week. This was something of a breakthrough and I was genuinely delighted for him. Had I a klaxon to hand, I’d have sounded it. Hard. But I didn’t. So instead we all ended up laughing. Greg and I get on better as co-parents living apart than we ever did as News 24-addict husband and uptight wife. So when he offered to take the kids this morning, I said ‘yes please’. I kissed Thomas and Charlotte goodbye, gave them a hug ‘big enough to last until I’m back’ and tore out of the door.

  Then I drove. Fast. Up the M40 without a single convenience break. I couldn’t park so I had to dump the car miles away and run in the rain. I didn’t even have time to walk the dogs beforehand. I only hope they haven’t crapped everywhere, I think. They have form in this area.fn1 But I can handle all of these things now. Bec
ause I am Viking. I can handle anything.

  Melissa told me not to worry about coming today (‘I know how it all works by now – I know where the loos are and the best mags …’) but I referred her to The Viking Convention, Protocol II. Namely, the agreement made that we will both be there for each other no matter what – whether we’re prepared to ask for help or not.fn2

  I also know that if it were me in her size-six shoes, I would, were I being honest, want someone with me. And this is something I can do for her, physically, as well as being there – as they say in the self-help community – ‘emotionally’. This last word still makes me want to vomit slightly, but only slightly. So, you know: progress. Dad was with her yesterday and we were all together last weekend. Turns out the kids love having their granddad and Fun Aunt Melissa around. And so do I. Dad and I worked out a rota for helping with Melissa’s animals and around the house and now like to overlap our shifts, so that we get to spend time together, too. We’ve even talked – really talked – about Mum. About how he felt, and about how I didn’t allow myself to feel. It’s been great. I only wish I’d made an effort sooner and I’m sorry I deprived all parties of each other’s company for so long. But there’s no point beating myself up over this now. Never apologise, I remember Inge’s words. Instead, I just plan to do better. From now on.

  A woman with red cheeks who’s always sniffing passes me in the hospital corridor and we exchange a brief smile – in the way British people who’ve encountered each other a few times but have yet to be formally introduced have down to a fine art. Then I begin scouring the ward for my sister.

  I worry that she’ll be unrecognisable. I worry that my expression on seeing her will give me away, before I can reassure her that she still looks like herself.

  The previous round of treatment took its toll and she described to me the disorientating fog of her ‘chemo brain’. The last time, Melissa told me she couldn’t stand the smell of bins any more and had just projectile vomited while trying to empty the dishwasher I bought her (‘Onto clean plates?’ I couldn’t help asking. ‘’Fraid so …’ was her response). My hardy sister now needs a hand emptying her refuse before it reaches ‘puke-level-full’ and washes up manually again.

  I’ve been pet-sitting, as often as possible, along with a whole host of well-wishing neighbours who have helped out in more ways than I could ever have anticipated. She’s popular, my sister, I think, proudly: a good person, who other people want to be around.

  I’m trying to be more like that.

  And I think I’m getting there, too. I asked one of the mums at school over for coffee this weekend and had lunch with the new dentist at the practice twice this week. We had tapas together – so it definitely counts. Plus he has really good teeth. And hands. And he keeps a bag for life in his car at all times … (just the one, mind, but still: impressive). I even reconnected with an old schoolmate recently. I may just be ‘slamming it’, as Melissa would say. At the very least, it’s a start. I’m trying to be less prickly, too. Although I still think people who wear harem pants are, largely, bell ends. As Melissa also says: some things should never change.

  Now, I smooth down my rain-tangled hair and keep looking for signs of my sister.

  Of course, she may be oblivious to the fact that I’m not there yet … I remind myself. ‘I like a nap while I’m plugged in,’ she told me last time before dozing off like a cat for the duration. I spent the time sifting through work emails, then put my phone away and read a book. For the first time in years. Turns out there’s a lot of sitting around to be done. What they never quite get across in TV soaps is how cancer treatment can be very much like waiting for a plane in an airport. But not today.

  ‘Oi! Over here!’ a familiar voice rings out.

  I squint to see where it came from and realise the time has come to admit that I need glasses for seeing anything further away than a patient’s mouth. Peering, I spot a small semi-circle to the left of seated figures. Most have magazines open on their laps. Some are chatting and a couple are sleeping, snoring gently. My sister, along with the woman next to her, appears to be sporting a space helmet with a nozzle coming out of it, attached to an elaborate-looking machine.

  ‘Well, don’t you look like a wet rescue dog!’ A pale but upbeat Melissa greets me from underneath her contraption.

  ‘Well, don’t you look like you’re visiting a hair salon from the seventies.’ I point to the device. ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s got ice in it to keep my head cold; apparently it might save some hair. Otherwise—’ she gestures for me to pass the tote bag currently resting by her ankles ‘—it’s this!’

  She pulls out what I initially mistake for a guinea pig, but then she shakes it, more vigorously than an animal lover ever should. A mass of hair unravels to reveal a curly, auburn wig that even Cher might shirk at.

  ‘Ta da!’

  ‘Blimey!’ is all I can think of to say.

  ‘Yes. I told them I wanted to try something a bit different. But, well … there’s different, and there’s …’

  ‘Yes. Quite.’

  ‘Anyway, it’ll be good to dress the dogs up in. I put them in the Viking helmets last week!’

  ‘Did the dogs like to be dressed up?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘No?’ My sister and I are still very different. In many ways. But I’m learning that This Is A Good Thing. And I’m delighted the dogs are getting some wear out of the horned helmets. I apologise for being late and hand over the cool bag of grapes I’ve frozen for her.

  ‘In case I wasn’t cold enough already?’ She flicks her eyes up to the top of her head.

  ‘I read that they’re good for nausea,’ I explain. The last round left Melissa with mouth ulcers and she’s been complaining of a tongue like cotton wool. ‘And I’ve brought more magazines.’ I unload my haul from one of the bags-for-life I’ve filled for the occasion. ‘Some moisturiser, snacks, new, un-stinky socks …’ I glance at the ‘lucky socks’ that Melissa still insists on wearing and crinkle my nose. ‘And of course, the acerbic wit that only a sister like me can provide …’

  ‘Of course! Like human sandpaper.’ She smiles, flashing her dimples, then gives my arm a punch.

  ‘Ow!’ How come my little sister, who’s currently having chemotherapy and her head frozen to minus four degrees, can still beat me up? Melissa’s strength = one of life’s mysteries. ‘So how are you feeling now?’

  ‘Honestly?’ she asks.

  ‘Honestly.’

  ‘Shattered. Sick of having a big shiny moon-face and aching bones and permanent reflux. But it’s OK. It’s out. The cancer, I mean. So this is my life for a while,’ she says. ‘It could be worse. I spoke to a woman named Barbara who said she had the kind of chemo that turns your pee red. And see that woman in the purple?’ She points to a sleeping figure wearing a turban. ‘Lost all her hair – eyelashes, eyebrows – the lot. Even down there,’ Melissa adds in a too-loud whisper, pointing at her genitals. ‘She showed us, last time – bald as a coot.’

  ‘That’s some sharing,’ is all I can think of to say before realising that this is probably a poor response.

  ‘And my nails haven’t fallen off,’ she adds. ‘So that’s a result. Plus I’ve got ink, now – more battle scars, Viking style!’

  ‘Sorry?’ I frown.

  Melissa sets down her magazine bounty to tug at her loose-fitting jumper, lowering it at the front. ‘They tattoo dots on you to line up the lasers for radiotherapy, make sure they don’t zap the wrong bit. One in the middle and one under each armpit. Pretty cool, right?’ She beams.

  My sister is incredible.

  I fear that in her position, I would still spend the majority of my time feeling sorry for myself. But not Melissa. Apart from some initial howls at the injustice of it all once she’d started chemo (‘I felt fine! Then they told me I was ill, and then they gave me ‘treatment’ that made me feel ill! I KNEW I hated medics!’) she swiftly reconciled herself to th
e idea that the experts were only trying to help. Since then, she has even embraced ‘science ’n’ medicine ’n’ stuff’ in something approaching a Damoclean conversion.

  Next step – space, I think. The final frontier …

  Her treatment is progressing and time is passing, faster than she had expected it to. ‘As long as I keep on keeping on, I’ll be OK,’ she said on my last visit. ‘Won’t I?’

  ‘You will,’ I told her, as confidently as I could. Because the alternative still isn’t worth thinking about. So I don’t. Instead we settle into our routine of chatting – about other patients, the dogs, the state of everyone’s bowels (hers: because the treatment can do peculiar things to a girl’s poo, apparently. And mine: because, peculiarly yet happily, I’m far more regular and relaxed post Viking retreat – much to Melissa’s delight and endless fascination). Then I get my book out and have a read while she sleeps, safe in the knowledge that I’m here beside her.

  Afterwards, it’s a race to get home, get the anti-nausea drugs inside her, and get both of us into pyjamas to take up residence on the sofa where I will stay with her overnight. Ostensibly this is to pet-sit and walk the dogs. But really, we both know, it’s to be a familiar body in the house.

  The rain has stopped by the time we walk out of the hospital together, slowly and under a weak sun. Once we’ve located the car among the rows of tin boxes, Melissa teases that it looks like I’ve just driven here from a showroom.

  ‘I’m surprised there isn’t plastic wrapping on the seats for extra cleanliness!’ she says and I laugh. What I don’t tell her is that I spent much of last night valeting the car – with a dedication to disinfection seldom seen outside of the dental room. I’ve read that Melissa’s at greater risk of infection than normal after treatment and despite my obsession with antibacterial gel and latex gloves, my children appear to be magnets for mud, ringworm and – most recently – head lice (that’s karma …). Parenting is not for sissies.

  Melissa, on the other hand, is still spectacularly unconcerned about dirt, despite leaflets from ‘actual professionals’ advising her otherwise – leaflets that I have ‘liberated’ duplicate copies of from the hospital and left lying around her house in a nonchalant fashion. But to no avail. So I’m cleansing by stealth, on her behalf.