What the Heart Keeps

by Rosalind Laker

  Lisa sent picture postcards of Bergen to Catherine and Harry but nothing to Alan. It had not been her intention to omit him, but it was almost as though the accumulated distress over Rita Davis had finally caught up with her and brought about a complete change in her attitude. She simply did not want to pen his name or write to him. Just as Minnie was already benefitting from the change of air, which Sarah had insisted would be the final healing touch, so she was revelling in a freedom from the constant worry that Alan had invoked. In Peter’s homeland she had become herself again, strong and independent. Let Alan have another woman for the time being if that was what he wished. Whether, when the holiday was over, she would end their marriage and relegate him forever to Rita Davis, remained to be seen. The choice would be hers entirely. In the meantime she was her own mistress again and it was exhilarating.

  They boarded the S.S. Vesteraalen in the evening hours for the coastal voyage north that would take them far beyond the Arctic Circle. They sailed at ten o’clock, as the persistent daylight of the northern summer defied the night hours, and went to sleep with the sound of the gentle waves being sliced through by the steamer’s bow.

  Lisa was up first and joined soon after by Minnie in the dining saloon. They breakfasted and watched the ever changing views of the wildly undulating rocky coast through the table window. When the North Sea swell gave way to the Norwegian Sea, they were in west fjord country where the mountains reached new heights and waterfalls cascaded in thundering torrents or in spray as delicate as bridal veils. Wild flowers grew in abundance on the lush lower slopes from which came the distant clank of cowbells. By noon they were in the port of Alesund and they went ashore for an hour while some cargo was unloaded and replaced by more goods. The town was built on three islands, and every turn of the street presented a phalanx of moored boats of the herring-fishing fleet. A rich and salty atmosphere prevailed.

  Lisa used her box camera to take a snap of Minnie against a great rock covered with nesting seabirds in the centre of the town, and afterwards bought some more postcards in a corner shop on the way back to the steamer. As they set sail again, Lisa was gripped by a special excitement. The next port of call was Molde, the town that held Peter’s birthplace within its vicinity.

  When she stepped ashore there she would be a short distance from the family farm to which his brother must surely have returned some years ago if everything had gone according to plan. Would there be time to drive out and see it? Not to call on anybody living there, but just to view it. Or was that wise? In her regained mood of independence she felt suddenly divested of past and present involvements. It would be better to remain that way without tempting providence.

  Minnie noticed that Lisa became increasingly quiet and withdrawn as the afternoon wore on. The steamer sailed deeper and deeper into the great Molde fjord, leaving a trail of ripples in its wake across the sun-diamond water. Six miles wide in places, the fjord was flanked on either side by mountain scenery of a grandeur almost beyond belief. Yet Lisa made no attempt to use her camera. It remained lying in the deck-chair, while she stood with one arm resting on the rails and her other hand in the pocket of her white jacket, the hem of her yellow dress fluttering gently about her calves. She was watching for Molde to come into view. Suddenly she gave a delighted gasp and swung around to where Minnie was sitting.

  “There it is! The fragrance! It’s coming on the breeze.”

  Minnie rose to her feet and went to face ahead at Lisa’s side. She caught the scent. It was sweet and heavy, coming in faint little gusts. “What is it?”

  “The Molde rose! Peter told me about it once. It’s a dark red rose that grows nowhere else in the world. That’s how Molde has become known as the Town of Roses. He said that in summer its perfume reached out to incoming ships.” Lisa inhaled it blissfully with her eyes shut. When she opened them again the town itself was coming into sight in rising tiers on the south-facing slopes of the fjord, its houses and hotels painted in pastel shades of pink and white and grey and green, its solitary church spire shining in the sun. As the steamer headed for the quayside, it became easy to pick out the Molde rose growing in gardens and in flower-beds bordering the streets and clustered about the church where beeches and limes and chestnut trees provided gentle shade from the late afternoon sun, still high and brilliant in a cloudless sky. A smart crimson touring car with the top down was waiting to take any travellers from the ship off on a local sight-seeing trip while the steamer lay alongside. Lisa and Minnie had already decided to take advantage of this facility as they went down the gangway.

  The driver, a middle-aged man in a chauffeur’s cap, greeted them as they approached and held the door of the vehicle wide for them.

  “Good afternoon, ladies. Welcome to Molde.”

  “Thank you,” Lisa replied. “What a beautiful town it is.”

  “We think so.” He closed the door when they had settled themselves on the rear seat and took his place at the wheel. His commentary as they drove along was conversational and not irksome, his English faultless. “On your left is the Alexandra Hotel, named, as so many hotels are in Norway, after a member of your Royal family. Our own Queen Maud being an English lady unites us closely to Great Britain. We have more visitors from your country than anywhere else, although recently with Germany making a financial recovery under Herr Hitler we have had many Germans coming here this summer. I’ve never seen people use cameras more, and such costly ones! They don’t only take pictures of the scenery, but they include railway stations and electric power plants and every inlet and harbour. It strikes me as odd sometimes. Almost as if there was a sinister purpose behind all that photograph-taking.”

  Lisa had found mention of the German Chancellor a jarring note in an otherwise beautiful day. There had been disquieting reports of what was going on in that country under his government. In an English newspaper she had purchased in Bergen, there had been further distressing accounts of Jewish children having stones and tin cans thrown at them by their fellow schoolmates. The driver was still on the subject of cameras.

  “I hope you ladies have a camera with you, because the view from Varden where I’m taking you is something that everyone wants to record, whether they are Norwegian, English, German or from anywhere else in the world.”

  It was Minnie who answered him. “Yes, we do have a camera,” she said, for Lisa appeared to have lost herself in contemplation of the bright little town with its small shops and clean streets where flower-filled baskets hung from lamp-posts, complementing the riot of roses elsewhere, and more blossoms tumbled in abundance from the sides of every window-box. Soon the town was left below them as the car took a winding route up the mountain side through thick forests of fir and pine to the place the driver had mentioned. The view had not been exaggerated and was a positive feast for the eyes. Before them stretched the wide blue fjord, a few islets set like jewels upon the surface, and beyond lay the whole vista of the snow-capped range of the Romsdal Mountains, almost a hundred peaks to count. Their escort named some of them while Lisa used her camera, clicking away until she had to load a new roll of film. She sat down on a wooden seat to do it, accidently dropping the camera’s leather carrying-case. The driver picked it up and held it, watching her at her task.

  “Do you happen to know where the Hagen farm lies?” she inquired tentatively, her attention on the camera in her lap.

  “Yes, I do.” He immediately supposed her to have verbal greetings from overseas for the Hagen family. Norwegian-Americans frequently delegated friends and acquaintances on vacation to the homeland to carry messages to relatives in the vicinity. “Is it Jon Hagen you wished to find? Or Peter? The other brothers don’t live around here anymore.”

  Her head jerked up and she stared at him, her pupils dilating. “Did you say Peter? But he lives in the States!”

  The man shook his head. “He came home years ago for his father’s funeral, bought a transport business, and never went back. He’s my employer. He has commercial int
erests in Bergen and Oslo in addition to those here in Molde, and he’s a director of a local bank. Not long before his wife died he had a fine house built on the slopes just above the town. He has done well. A successful man in every way.”

  Lisa’s heart was thumping against her ribs. “Has he children?”

  “Twin sons. Clever, hard-working boys like their father. They spend their summer school vacations working on their uncle’s farm. That’s where they are now.”

  “And where would Mr. Peter Hagen be at the present time? In Molde?”

  “No. He’s in Oslo on business for a few days.”

  “Would he be back here when the steamer calls in on the return voyage south again?” She appeared intent on strapping the camera into the case that the driver had handed to her while they had been speaking. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Minnie was watching her, observing that her frame was too taut, her fingers a little too precise in their movements.

  “We can stop at the office on the way back to the boat and I’ll inquire for you, madam.”

  “Thank you. I’d like to leave a note for him.”

  Minnie spoke warningly. “There’s no time for that, Lisa. We don’t want to miss the sailing.”

  The driver hastened to reassure her. “I won’t let that happen, madam. You’ll catch the boat with time to spare.”

  As they drove into town again, Minnie attempted to dissuade Lisa from trying to arrange contact. She was convinced that she must protect Lisa from what would be a most heart-aching and traumatic ordeal. The past could not be revived. It was lost to Lisa as it was to her.

  “Leave well enough alone, I implore you. You’ve no idea what it would do to you to see Peter again. He’s been married. Probably he hasn’t thought about you for years. You could put him under an embarrassing obligation by letting him know when you’ll be back in Molde.”

  “This is something I have to do.”

  Minnie sighed heavily, able to tell by the set of Lisa’s profile that no amount of argument was going to sway her from the action she was taking. Although Minnie was irritated by her friend’s stubbornness, she was glad to see that Lisa had somehow rallied on this holiday to become again the person she had always been. There had been a lapse. At the time of their reunion aboard the Queen Mary, Minnie had not noticed any change in her old friend except the new coiffure, but since she had pulled out of her depression helped by Lisa’s selfless encouragement, she had seen that there were other changes which had not been apparent before. It was as if Alan’s infidelity had been the one blow too heavy for Lisa to sustain on her own behalf. She could still fight for others, but not for herself, prepared to let life wash over her instead of attacking whatever should come with a courageous vigour as she had done in the past. This resolve to see Peter was a striking out against ennui and personal frustration. Minnie felt like cheering and weeping at the same time.

  The driver drew up outside a well-designed office building. He escorted Lisa inside and they were met by Peter’s secretary, who spoke excellent English. She informed Lisa that Peter would be returning to Molde the day after tomorrow, and put a pen and ink and paper before her on the desk to write a note to him. When it was written, Lisa sealed it in an envelope and handed it over. She was assured that he would receive it immediately upon his return.

  On board again she watched Molde slip away as the steamer headed out again from the fjord. It would be an early-morning call for the vessel when it touched there on the return trip. Would she see Peter waiting on the quayside?

  For the next nine days the holiday with Minnie continued as if Lisa’s thoughts were not forever flying southwards to Molde and Peter’s return there. The grandeur of the scenery did not ebb. One range of mountains gave way to another as the steamer followed the course of the Gulf Stream, the fjords changing from sapphire through to emerald, each town and village port of call offering individual sights of interest and of charm. Minnie bought a troll carved out of wood and Lisa some hand embroidery. Far north, at Tromso, they began to glimpse Laps in costumes of scarlet and blue, tending herds of grazing reindeer. Finally they came to the edge of Europe at North Cape. There they stood with other passengers at the ship’s rails, bathed in a golden glow, their shadows stretched out across the deck behind them, and saw the orb of the sun descend to brush against the sea’s horizon at midnight and, without more ado, rise still in its entirety into the sky again to continue unbroken the summer of everlasting light.

  From that point the steamer made its turnaround port of call and started southwards again. Lisa was counting the days. Their last visit ashore before reaching Molde once more was to view the cathedral at Trondheim. When Lisa went to bed that night she asked the stewardess to give a knock on her door at five o’clock. But she was awake before it came, already showered and dressed and up on deck to see the re-entering of the Molde fjord. Towards seven o’clock in the warm morning air the steamer drew towards the quayside. Peter was waiting there, a big blond man with a sun-bronzed face and clad in a light summer suit. She felt her love surging out to him. He was holding a bouquet of Molde’s crimson roses.

  They waved to each other simultaneously. He had a grin of pure pleasure spread across his face, and she was palpitating with joy that this moment had come. As the steamer slowed steadily alongside the quay, he kept pace with the place where she stood, calling up to her.

  “How are you, Lisa? It was the greatest surprise of my life to find your letter waiting for me!”

  “I’m fine!” she called down to him. “Minnie and I have had a marvellous time since we arrived in Norway. You look well.”

  It was a light, inconsequential exchange such as old friends anywhere might voice upon meeting after a long absence from each other. As the gangway went into place, she hastened to be the first to disembark. As she stepped ashore they faced each other fully. As had happened once before, it could have been yesterday that they had parted. Their eyes held searchingly. Hers were always brighter in colour at times of high emotion. He remembered that well as he observed the green and gold flecks in her irises that were aglow today. Neither he nor she made any move towards a kiss of reunion. It was too soon and too public a place for however it might be when their lips met again.

  “Hello, Lisa,” he was saying.

  “Hello, Peter.”

  She took the bouquet he handed to her and raised it to inhale the fragrance deeply. “The roses are as beautiful as you once described to me.”

  “It’s taken longer than I originally supposed it would for me to have this chance to give some to you.”

  “I have them now.”

  “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

  “This is a happy day for me.”

  “For both of us.” Taking her hand into his as he had always done, he indicated a nearby parking place. “My car is over there.”

  “I see it’s American,” she remarked as they went towards it.

  He chuckled, opening the car door for her. “A far cry from the transport I used in the States. My sons like to hear tales of the West as we knew it.”

  “How old are they?”

  He went round to the front of the car and answered as he slid in beside her. “Fourteen.”

  “I was sorry to hear that you lost your wife,” she said compassionately.

  “It was a hard blow to take. The boys miss her as I do. She was a fine woman.”

  As he began to turn the car out of the parking spot, Minnie, who had just awakened, came rushing up on deck. The rough haste with which she had thrown on her negligee was apparent in the number of feathers loosened from its mariboux trimming and floating about her in the sunlight. She waved frantically to catch Lisa’s attention.

  “Wait! Lisa!”

  Lisa, catching the sound of her name, turned her head to look out of the open car window. “Yes, Minnie?” she called, shading her eyes against the brilliance of the sun on the sparkling water.

  “Be back in good time! Don’t miss the
sailing!”

  To Minnie’s chagrin no promise was forthcoming. Lisa’s expression was calm, smiling, and enigmatic as the car swept her away. Minnie was left fuming to herself for having overslept. She had intended to be up to accompany Lisa throughout this hazardous reunion. The look on her friend’s face had increased her fears as to what the outcome of it would be. Had Lisa made up her mind already to stay behind when the steamer sailed? And, if she had, for how long? Or forever?

  Peter drove Lisa up to his home, which was situated just above the town. They talked the whole way, she telling him about Harry and Catherine and Minnie. Alan was mentioned in connection with the war and the cinemas. Peter, in his turn, told her how it had come about that he had not gone back to the States as he had intended.

  “What about since then?”

  “I’ve been twice. Both were business trips. I’ll be going again before long.”

  “You don’t come via Liverpool any more?” She was joking a little.

  He shot her a twinkling glance. “No, it’s the Norwegian line from Oslo to New York for me these days.”

  They reached the house and drew up in the driveway. Built in clean, advanced lines, it was in harmony with its isolated setting of forested slopes and its frontage was almost entirely fashioned from glass to command an unbroken vista of the fjord and the Romsdal Mountains. Indoors everything was of white pine with contemporary tapestries of geometrical design in rich hues, the furniture upholstered in pale hide. A Munch painting held a place of honour. Yet it was a far humbler piece of craftsmanship that caught her attention. In a corner of the room was Peter’s travelling box, its colours worn by time, its battered corners bearing witness to its passage in steerage quarters, its tossing about in horse-drawn wagons over rough terrain, and its transportation in rattling trains over thousands of miles of the American continent.