She pulls on some rubber gloves and scrubs the grubby inside of a cupboard, while I pick up a rag and go to war with the cobwebs. I expect her to ask what I’m doing here or why I left home, but she doesn’t. She yawns, and I notice how tired she looks. Maybe that’s why she isn’t making conversation. Part of me welcomes the silence, but I need to find out about Nina.
Eventually I say, ‘So how long have you worked at the circus?’
She answers without looking up, ‘Longer than I should have, probably.’
‘Years then?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And the acrobats, have they been here a long time?’
‘Depends. We get artists from all around the world. At the moment we have performers from China, Russia, Nigeria, India and Mexico as well as various places in Europe. Some stay for six months, others have been here much longer.’ Ruth wipes her forehead then adds. ‘They’re incredibly talented. You should go to the show tomorrow.’
I nod, thinking I’d like to see the kind of things that Nina did. And then I shiver, remembering that Stig said she fell from the trapeze. I don’t know how it happened though, as he didn’t go into detail. Maybe there’s a way I can get Ruth to talk about the accident. I glance at her face and say, ‘It always looks so dangerous, up there on the trapeze, I mean.’
Her expression darkens and she scrubs the cupboard with renewed vigour. When she doesn’t say anything, I risk adding, ‘I guess it’s safe though?’
‘Hmm.’ She reaches for a bottle of cleaner, fixing me with sharp brown eyes. ‘So what brings you to Norway? Are you just travelling through?’
I shake my head, disappointed at the change of subject. ‘I’m staying on Skjebne in the Lofoten Islands with my mum. My grandmother was Norwegian.’
‘Was?’
‘She died last month.’
Ruth’s gaze softens. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’
I hold back a tear and look away. It wasn’t long ago that I was rushing to catch my flight at Heathrow and then boarding the ferry to the island, excited to see Mormor. I’d known something was wrong when she hadn’t answered my letters, but the last thing I expected to find was a random boy living in her cabin. I was so angry at Stig for breaking in that I almost didn’t believe him when he said she’d died. It might have been stupidly trusting of me to let him stay, even if he had nowhere to go and would have frozen to death otherwise, but it helped to have him there. Losing Mormor was the worst thing that ever happened to me. He was someone to talk to when I had no one.
Thinking about him makes my head pound. There must be a reason he hasn’t been able to text. I hope he isn’t hurt.
‘So will you be going back to London soon?’ asks Ruth.
‘No, we’re going to stay.’ I don’t mention that we don’t have a choice. Somehow I doubt she would believe that Yggdrasil, the Norse world tree, is real and growing in my grandma’s back garden and Odin has tasked my family line with watering it.
As I wipe down the walls I ask Ruth where she lived before and how she came to do tarot but she offers such meagre answers I soon give in to silence. All I learn is that she left Ireland when she was my age, and that the lady who saved her taught her to read people’s fortunes. She doesn’t say anything about having a baby. I’m glad she doesn’t ask me any more questions. I feel bad about lying to her, especially as she’s been so kind.
I know better than anyone the damage that lies can do. If Mum had told me about our gift and the fact that Mormor had died, I would have known to water the tree and the dead would never have escaped. I realise she was trying to protect me, and we’re trying to put things right – we promised no more secrets – but I still can’t forgive her for keeping the truth from me.
Ruth peels off her rubber gloves then drops them into the box that held the food and bedlinen. ‘Now then, you’ll be needing somewhere to sleep.’ She pulls out one of the sofas, turning it into a bed, then wrestles a duvet into a cover and shakes out some sheets. They smell clean and homely and I fight a yawn.
She finishes and straightens up. ‘You remember where I am?’ I shake my head and she points to the left. ‘A few minutes that way, just past the big costume trailer. The performance starts at noon tomorrow so we need to be in the psychic tent by half past one, ready for when people come out.’
I nod and she puts the cleaning stuff back into the box. ‘I’m seeing a friend tonight, but come to mine for dinner tomorrow?’
I touch her hand. ‘Thanks – for everything.’
She smiles then pulls me close and whispers, ‘Things will get better, you’ll see.’ Her arms hold me tight, as if she knows how much I need a hug. Her warmth is so comforting that I want to stay there, but her shawl . . . This time it shows me the baby she left behind. Shame, regret and guilt pour out of her. I pull away, the emotions more than my heart can hold.
Ruth hoicks up the box and I open the door, the icy wind so shocking it takes my breath away. The moon is a pale silver disk, shrouded almost entirely by cloud. All around us dots of light shine in the dark, some from caravans nearby and others from far away. It makes me think of ships on the ocean. Adrift.
Ruth says, ‘Sleep well,’ then walks away and vanishes into the night.
As soon as she’s gone the dark feels different. Like it’s alive and watching me. The giant shape of the big top lurks in the distance, outlined by swaying strings of yellow lights. Beyond it, I can just make out the wolf’s head that marks the entrance to the hall of mirrors. I turn away, not wanting to think about its hungry eyes and gaping mouth.
A gust of wind yanks the door from my grip. Something hits the caravan roof with a thud, a branch maybe, and the light in the kitchen area flickers. Fighting the wind, I pull the door closed and turn the flimsy lock. The hairs on my arms rise up on end and I have the feeling that someone is standing behind me.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Coming from the window opposite.
I spin around and glare at the closed curtains, my heart racing. There won’t be anything out there in the dark, but what if . . . Holding my breath, I stand still and listen. Nothing. Just the lonely wail of the wind. I let out a shaky sigh and the sound comes again: three urgent taps. Steeling myself, I rip open the curtains. A mass of fir branches writhe against the glass as if the caravan is being consumed by the forest.
I go to shut the curtains, annoyed at myself for being so jumpy, and then I see her out in the darkness: a girl in a white dress, her legs bare. She reaches a hand to her throat, the whites of her eyes black. Then I notice my reflection and realise I’m wrong – she isn’t outside. She’s behind me. I spin around but the caravan is empty. When I look at the window again, she’s gone.
My phone buzzes on the counter and my heart leaps into my throat. Six texts and nine missed calls from Mum. Reception is always bad on the island; the messages must have been stored up then sent through all at once. I phone her and she answers instantly.
‘Martha, thank God. Are you at the hotel? Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.’
She sounds agitated and I feel bad for making her anxious. I forgot she booked a room for me in the nearby town. I should have phoned to let them know I wouldn’t be coming.