by Julie Caplin
‘No disrespect to the bard and all that but I’m going to duck out,’ announced Ben. ‘Work has called; I need to get an article finished.’
‘Is it far?’ asked Avril, now looking uncertain. ‘What time will we be back? I don’t want to have to rush this evening when we go out again.’
‘It’s forty-five minutes on the train,’ said Eva firmly. ‘And you’ll be back by five-thirty.’
I was grateful to Eva and while she was extoling the virtues of the visit to the others, I took Ben to one side.
‘I appreciate you have work to do, but …’ I could relate as I had a ton of stuff building up too.
‘This is pure tourist stuff. It’ll be background material at most.’
‘Yes, but if you don’t come, how’s it going to look to everyone else?’ The brief glimpse of a slightly different Ben the previous night, made me think I might appeal to his better nature.
‘That’s not my problem.’
‘If they all start playing hooky, it will make my life very difficult.’
His grin was without any hint of malice but no apology either. ‘You should have thought about that before you coerced me into the trip. Presumably they were all willing victims.’
I smiled back, ‘You mean they saw the opportunities this trip offered.’
Suddenly stern, his eyebrows drawn together like two angry slashes, he looked down his nose at me, ‘They don’t write serious pieces.’
I stepped back, feeling his annoyance, our brief accord dashed away.
‘Oh, come on, your article is as likely as anyone else’s to end up wrapped around a portion of chips.’
‘So says the PR girl desperate for coverage.’
‘I’m not desperate,’ I hissed. I didn’t like the way he made me sound.
With a brief twist of his lips he made his scepticism clear. ‘Whatever I write, it’s what I’ve chosen to write. Not told to do. Fish and chip wrapper or not, I aim to inform and enlighten.’
‘And your information is better than anyone else’s?’ I asked sarcastically.
Anger flashed on his face. ‘You and Dawkins are quite a pair, aren’t you?’ His eyes narrowed with dislike.
A flicker of shame twisted my stomach. I wasn’t that bad. Just getting the job done. ‘I don’t know why you keep on about him. I only met him briefly.’
‘I’m sure there was enough time for him to tell you all about my fall from grace.’ His words echoed with bitterness and his jaw clamped with sharp edged defiance.
Before I could respond, Mads tapped my elbow, indicating we needed to leave.
Luckily no one else had decided to follow Ben’s lead, as he peeled off from the group towards the hotel to an echo of cheery goodbyes, and the rest of us walked the short distance to the central station.
Chapter 13
The next morning we met in the hotel lobby, waiting ten minutes for Avril before she finally arrived, clicking across the tiled floor in stylish suede high-heeled ankle boots. With her long dark glossy hair and immaculate make-up, she was rocking the super model about to jet off somewhere exotic look as opposed to a canal boat trip.
‘Excellent, everyone is here,’ said Mads, seemingly not the least bit bothered about Avril’s late arrival. ‘Now we have a guided boat trip from Nyhaven, the famous harbour area, a two-minute walk from here.’
‘A boat trip?’ Avril sounded horrified. Hadn’t she read the itinerary? ‘Will we be warm enough? It’ll be cold on the water.’
‘The boats have very good heating on them,’ said Mads with his usual reassuring smile.
‘I can’t bear being cold. I need a scarf. I have a cashmere one in my room.’ With that she tripped across the reception back to the lift. I pointedly looked at my watch, which was completely wasted as she was long gone.
By the time Avril had returned, swathed in the most beautiful Cashmere wrap, David and Conrad had wandered to the other end of the street and Fiona was nowhere to be seen. I was wondering how many days into the trip it would be before I succumbed to a nervous breakdown or bought leads for everyone. It took another ten minutes to round everyone up before we finally set off.
Even Avril who stumbled and tripped on the cobbles along the route, complaining frequently, asking how much further it was with the petulance of a teenager being dragged out for a country walk, was silenced by the picturesque scene of Nyhaven.
The waterfront teemed with colour and life, the facades of the buildings painted in blues, reds, oranges and yellows while the pavement cafés were full of people sitting outside under outdoor heaters sipping at coffees. Tall-masted fishing boats edged the canal, the smell of fish and tar permeating the air, while the lines on the masts of the boats clinked rhythmically in the brisk sea breeze along with the plentiful Danish flags which fluttered and flapped furiously.
Of course, we’d missed the boat we’d intended to catch, what with Avril and her heels, and dreamy, head in the clouds Fiona, who with her ever-present camera was in her element, snapping away at everything. It was difficult to get cross with her when you could see the shy smile of delight on her face at every turn.
The weak spring sunshine lit up the buildings and the tall green topped towers of churches giving everything a warm fairy-tale glow but didn’t dispel the chill of a brisk wind coming from the water. I was grateful for my new down jacket which was much warmer than its flimsy weight first suggested. I snuggled into it, wrapping my scarf tighter and burrowing my nose into it. With Mads in charge, I was free to bring up the rear and enjoy the scenery.
We went down a flight of steps to the ticket kiosk and the short queue was despatched with quick Danish efficiency, leaving us plenty of time to walk around to the boat bobbing in the water waiting for us. There were already a few people on board sitting underneath the curved glass roof.
‘Right,’ said Mads, handing out the tickets. ‘I shall meet you here in one hour. There is a guide on the boat.’
‘Right,’ I said doubtfully.
I waited as the others filed onto the boat.
‘Don’t worry, Kate. You will be fine on your own. You don’t need me. I will be back in one hour. I have some things to arrange for tomorrow.’
He was right of course. It didn’t need two of us. On board the boat, everyone would be together with no chance to wander off and, unless someone fell overboard, which in these boats was highly unlikely, nothing could go wrong and I could relax for the next hour and enjoy the scenery.
Sophie led the way, striding across the small gap between the jetty and the boat and nimbly skipping down the stairs into the boat, followed by David and Conrad. Avril paused at the top, like a horse baulking at a jump, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
‘Here,’ Ben went down the stairs, waiting at the bottom for her, holding out his hands to guide her down.
‘My hero,’ she said, flashing him one of her zillion kilowatt smiles, which could have brought an army to its knees. Ben was no exception, his eyes widened and his hands slipped to her waist to lift her down from the last step. She whispered something to him with a low husky laugh and then sauntered off, hips swinging, down the gangway.
As I took the top of the steps, he looked up at me, raising his eyebrows.
‘I don’t suppose you need a hand, do you?’
‘No, of course not,’ I said sharply ignoring the unfavourable comparison with Avril. She was the sort of woman men looked after. He waited at the bottom as I passed by and offered the same courtesy to Fiona lurking at the back as usual.
The others had all opted for the seats at the rear of the boat, out in the open.
‘This is perfect,’ said Fiona and then put her hand across her mouth at the uncharacteristic outburst, coloured bright red and plumped down into the nearest seat. Ben came down the gangway, looked at me and then Fiona, and with a twist of his mouth he stopped, surveyed the two spare seats and with an abrupt turn took a step back and sat down next to Fiona.
The boat sat low in the water and
high above us on the wooden canal sides, people sat with their legs dangling over the edge, chatting to each other, taking pictures and generally watching the world go by. With the colourful buildings as a backdrop behind them and everyone so relaxed, some waving down at the canal boats, drinks in hand, there was a festive air as if everyone were on holiday today.
For some reason, it made me smile and I tilted my face up to the sun, I was going to ignore Benedict Johnson and be grateful that today he’d turned up. For the next hour, I could pretend I was on holiday and with everyone confined to the boat, I couldn’t lose anyone. It was a relief to have them all in one place.
Avril leaned down and rubbed at her feet before saying, ‘Honestly someone could have warned us there’d be walking.’
Sophie, next to me, rolled her eyes and smiled without any sign of malice. ‘Avril, those boots are fab but seriously what were you thinking?’
‘Well how was I to know the place was full of bloody cobbles? It’s the twenty-first century for goodness sake; you’d have thought they’d have proper roads by now. There’s quaint and there’s bloody uncivilised. Denmark is supposed to be a haven of design style. How do Danish women cope? Thank goodness I went back for this.’ She tossed the stylish, gossamer weight cashmere scarf over her shoulder, where it flowed in loose, soft undulating folds down her back.
The boat dipped and bobbed as the engine revved and pulled away from the harbour side, doing a many pointed turn in the canal before chugging along the picturesque waterfront. At the front a tall gangly teenager with a chin full of scruffy blonde bum-fluff stood up and took the microphone. He didn’t look old enough to buy a pint, let alone take a tour out, but his introductory spiel, in English, Danish, Italian and German, soon had me changing my initial impression, this wasn’t the Saturday boy that had been drafted in.
‘Please remember to stay inside the boat. The bridges are very low. Now here we start our journey. In the eighteenth century these buildings were brothels and pubs and merchant houses.’
Obediently we all turned to look at the jewel bright buildings above us, the classic image of Copenhagen, which made everyone get their phones and cameras out to take pictures. Although the green, blue, yellow and ochre painted buildings were of different heights and widths, there was neat uniformity about them giving them the spit and polish of soldiers on parade.
At the end of the canal, the boar swung out past the Royal Danish Playhouse, an imposing contemporary structure, into a much wider channel crossing the open water with a long slow lazy turn. Out here the water was choppier, but the boat glided smoothly through as the guide pointed out Paper Island, with its art centre and shipping container street food. The old industrial newspaper buildings weren’t the prettiest but in typical Danish recycling fashion, it had been transformed with an open area at the front full of modern deck chairs and people soaking up the spring sunshine. Even at this distance across the water you could sense a buzz and exciting vibe about the place.
‘That’s where you get the best street food in Copenhagen,’ said Sophie. ‘I’m trying to work out when I can go there.’
‘The hotel has free bicycles,’ I suggested. ‘You could cycle here from the hotel.’
‘Oh Lordy, you’re not getting me on a bike,’ drawled Avril.
‘Nor me,’ said Conrad. ‘Don’t worry lovie, you can prop a bar up with me instead.’
‘Now that sounds like a plan.’
‘I think cycling would be fun,’ said Sophie, smiling as usual at them. ‘Hmm, I wonder when I can do that.’
In my head, I gave the itinerary a quick assessment, it had been deliberately planned with plenty of free time so that the journalists had some time to themselves to explore the city and to get a feel for the Danish way of life.
There was a rustle on board, as everyone turned to look at the striking Royal Opera House. Dominating the bank, it stood like some modern-day juggernaut in stark contrast to the pretty buildings of Nyhaven. A huge steel cantilevered roof reached out towards the water defying gravity, with majestic arrogance which was softened by the beehive curve of glass below. Through the vast glass frontage, the guide pointed out the three light sculpture created by some famous sculptor. Even at this distance their artistry shone. As the young man described the gold leaf ceiling and the details of the interior materials, it was clear that this was a country with a deep and resonating pride in all its art and design.
‘Have you been to Copenhagen before?’ Benedict asked Fiona, who’d been busy taking lots of pictures of the Opera House.
‘No.’
Her prickly response, effectively shutting down his attempt at conversation made me smile in sympathy but I’d underestimated him.
‘What gave you the idea for your blog, Hanning’s Half Hour?’ He’d turned to Fiona again. I admired his fortitude. ‘It’s a neat title,’ he added, as gently as a vet dealing with a nervous kitten.
His touch could be equally gentle, I remembered with a discreet shiver.
‘T-thank you.’ She ducked her head, stroking the edge of the lens of her camera as the boat slowed, the tick of the engine dropping to a dull throb as it bobbed on the water near the bank offering a sea view of the Little Mermaid statue.
Fiona stood to take a picture of the back of the Little Mermaid, swaying precariously, tutting and muttering as she viewed the image. Angling the camera again, she tried another shot falling back against Ben’s legs before swaying forward again. He lifted a hand and steadied her.
‘We don’t want you falling in.’
She blushed furiously. ‘Thank you.’
‘That’s OK.’ A sudden attractive smile lit up his face, one I remembered well. ‘Tell you what, can you take a couple of pictures for me as we go back? The Opera House is a good story. Big business being altruistic or a massive tax dodge. The funding to build it was quite controversial. I could do with a couple of decent pics. Would you mind?’
‘No.’ Fiona gave him, what I think was her best shot at a smile, ‘that’s fine.’ She fired off another couple of quick photos and seemed pleased with the results when she sat down to review the images.
‘That’s a pretty fearsome looking camera. You look like you know what you’re doing with it,’ said Ben, his voice had gentled when he spoke to her and I noticed he kept an unthreatening distance.
‘It’s a Nikon D500. Ten frames per second.’ She ran on for a couple of minutes spouting technical information that meant absolutely nothing to me or I suspected to him, but he nodded the whole time. It was the most I’d heard her say and it was fascinating to see her blossom, talking so authoritatively about photography.
Bloody Ben Johnson intrigued me. Despite his protests that he didn’t want to be here, I’d been watching him out of the corner of my eye for the last ten minutes and he seemed to be fascinated with everything the guide said. Where was the mad fox who barked down the phone at me? This man, listening carefully to the guide, those sharp intelligent eyes taking in the sights, his face animated and thoughtful by turn, reminded me far too much of the Ben at the awards night and that brief unnerving connection between us. The one I’d turned tail and run from.
The boat turned from the open water, where the sea air, tangy with salt, buffeted us into the shelter of a canal which ran down the centre of a quiet residential street lined with gabled houses. It felt rather like Amsterdam, which the guide told us was the inspiration behind the architecture.
‘Now we are coming to St Saviour’s Church, this is one of the most beautiful churches in Copenhagen with its famous spire and external staircase. You can see it through here.’
Everyone craned forward to catch a glimpse of the church and its black and gold spiral staircase winding up the outside of the tower.
‘Please sit down at the back.’ The guide’s voice over the microphone held a touch of weary repetition, making me wonder if any tourists had ever been decapitated en-route. ‘There’s a low bridge coming up.’
A few daring souls d
esperate to capture the elusive glimpses of the church through the buildings hung on til the last minute, including one Italian gentleman who’d been reprimanded several times for not sitting down as instructed. You could tell the guide was getting quite fed up with him, as was his daughter, who was now nudging him with embarrassment.
Despite the shelter of the street, a sudden fierce gust of wind funnelled down the canal, snatching at Avril’s scarf tossing it upwards, billowing into the air like a spinnaker and enveloping her head. The gossamer light fabric moulded to her face like an ancient death mask. In sudden blind panic, she stood with flailing hands, to try and grasp it but the wind mischievously took hold tossing it higher in the air like a spiral of smoke whipping the ends further from her grasp.
‘Avril, sit down. Sit down,’ yelled Ben as the shadow of the bridge loomed over us, a slow inevitable foreshadowing of incipient menace.
‘My scarf. My scarf,’ shrilled Avril, her back to the danger as she reached again to rescue the fabric flapping and rippling like a flag. As the wind gave one last playful gust and tore it away, she lunged to her feet, her hands reaching vacantly into the air.
‘Sid ned. Sid ned. Sit down. Sit down. Hinsetzen. Siediti.’ The urgent voice of the guide was doubly amplified by the microphone and a chorus of support from the other passengers. Cries of alarm echoed, bouncing back from the walls of the bridge.
With that awful slow-motion, horror-film inevitability the stone arch of the bridge loomed behind her. Around me I heard horrified gasps and I tried to move my frozen feet.
There was a sudden blur of movement. Avril screamed and dropped to the floor.
Ben’s lightning reaction, hurling himself across two seats, felling her with a rugby tackle just as the boat slid out of the sunlight, had brought her down. Somehow at the same time David had managed to catch the scarf and held it gingerly like a trophy he didn’t know what to do with.