A Bridge to the Stars, page 13
Joel watches the little wooden man's arms moving more and more slowly, just as the tune is fading away . . .
Sara is standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling at him. She's wearing her working clothes, the black skirt and white blouse.
'Time to get up,' she says.
'Where's Samuel?' asks Joel.
But he doesn't need to ask. His father has already been working in the forest for several hours. Sawing and chopping while the snow-covered trees stand all round him, waiting to be felled.
'You were fast asleep,' says Sara. 'He didn't want to wake you up last night. You were sleeping like a log.'
Logs don't sleep, he thinks. Logs don't breathe, don't laugh, don't sleep. A log can't think, can't speak. A log is just a log . . .
He tumbles out of bed and gets dressed. There is a bowl of porridge waiting for him in the kitchen.
It feels odd, not having to make my own breakfast, he thinks as he eats.
Sara is standing in front of a wall mirror, combing her hair. She fixes it behind her ears with two hairpins.
He notices that her ears stick out slightly. Not a lot, but it's noticeable. And she makes no effort to hide the fact.
'That was a terrific alarm clock,' he says.
As he leaves she pats him on the cheek.
'You'll have to hurry up now,' she says. 'It's late.'
He takes the short cut through the churchyard, but doesn't jump over Nils Wiberg's family grave.
He decides to say that he's had a bad cold when Miss Nederström asks him why he hasn't been at school. If he snorts through his nose before entering the classroom, it will get blocked up. Then Miss Nederström will be able to hear that he's had a cold.
He decides that he's had a temperature of 38.6 degrees. In order to be believed, he must avoid sounding vague. Not 38 degrees, but 38.6.
To his surprise, however, she doesn't ask and the school day passes without anything unusual happening.
Otto has fallen ill again, and Joel hopes that he's going to be off school so long that he has to repeat the year again next year. It's a nasty thought, but Joel doesn't care if Otto has to spend the rest of his life repeating the year.
On the way home he calls in at the grocer's. Svenson is sitting on a chair behind the counter and has a headache.
'Potatoes,' says Joel. 'And milk. A box of matches.
And a jar of pickled herring.'
Svenson groans as he stands up. He blinks hard at Joel, as if he were finding it hard to stay awake.
'Tell your dad he'd better come in and pay his bills pretty soon now,' he says. 'It's a month since he last paid.'
Joel promises to pass on the message, but he reckons Svenson can wait for another month. The first priority is buying an electric cooker, and then The Flying Horse. His dad won't have enough money for much more than that.
When he gets home he sits down at the kitchen table and writes up his logbook.
He writes about Simon Windstorm and Four Winds Lake. Simon Windstorm has just been released after being captured and held a prisoner for ten years by natives in Sumatra. They go for a walk together round the shore of the remarkable island called Four Winds Island. . .
Then he sits on the window seat in the hall, waiting for his father to come home.
It's been thawing. The sun has already gone down, but melted snow is still dripping down from the roof.
He's worried about seeing Ture later tonight. He hopes Ture won't turn up. He'd prefer to be on his own, looking for the dog, always assuming he goes out at all.
Joel thinks about his Secret Society. It hasn't turned out as he'd envisaged. There again, he's not really sure what he had in mind when he first started it all. The only thing that is absolutely sure is the dog. The dog that ran down the street in the middle of the night, and looked round, as if it were frightened of something. That's where it all started.
I must find that dog, Joel thinks.
It's important. Why it's important, I don't know. But what I do know is that I have to find it before it vanishes when it reaches its star . . .
He doesn't know why he thinks it's going to run off into space. Possibly because it sounds fascinating? Possibly because it can be a sort of password? Or a magic spell?
Why do you sometimes have thoughts you don't understand? he wonders.
As if there was somebody else inside your head, choosing thoughts for you.
He breathes onto the windowpane and writes his name in the mist.
Joel isn't a bad name. Otto is a bad name. Joel is good because it's not all that common, but not too uncommon either. There's only one other boy at his school called Joel, but there are definitely ten called Tore and maybe as many as twenty called Margareta.
Joel thinks up two rules. He jumps down from the window seat and takes his logbook out of Celestine's glass case.
Rules for Joel Gustafson, he writes. Rules that must always be obeyed.
You don't need to be best, but you must never be worst, he writes. That's rule number one.
If you think something is bad you must look for something that is worse, he writes. When you find something that's worse, whatever it was that felt bad won't seem quite so bad any longer. That's rule number two.
He thinks that the rules are a bit long, but he can't think of a shorter way of expressing them. Sometimes it seems as if there aren't enough words.
He hears the front door close with a bang down below, then his father's footsteps coming up the stairs.
Joel has forgotten all about the potatoes. He stuffs the logbook into his pocket and starts putting firewood in the stove. His father is coughing and clearing his throat in the hall as he takes off his jacket.
'I think I'm getting a cold,' he says as he comes into the kitchen and sits down on a chair. Joel helps him off with his boots. Samuel smells very strongly of sweat today.
'Phew, what a stink!' he says, pulling a face. 'We'd better gather together all our dirty linen tonight.'
Joel's dad has an old, worn-out sailor's kitbag that they use for dirty washing. When it's full he takes it to a widow called Mrs Nilson who launders it. She lives in the same building as Svenson's grocery shop.
After dinner Samuel brings out the big zinc bath. Joel boils some water on the stove, and has to go downstairs twice for more firewood.
His dad settles into the bath with his knees up under his chin. Joel always has to laugh whenever he sees him hunched up like this, barely able to move.
'What's so funny?' asks Samuel.
'Nothing,' says Joel.
Then he gives his dad's back a good scrubbing.
'Scrub harder,' says Samuel. 'I think I've got bark all over my skin after chopping down so many damned trees. Scrub harder . . . '
Then it's Joel's turn. His dad gives him a good scrubbing as well, and cuts his nails. Then they sit in front of the stove to dry out, wrapped up in towels.
'This is something we won't be able to do when we have an electric cooker,' says Samuel. 'Maybe we could crawl into the oven to dry instead.'
Then he becomes serious.
'I'm going to see Evert's mother tonight,' he says. 'I have to pass on my condolences.'
When they've finished drying themselves, Samuel takes his black suit out of the wardrobe. He's hardly ever worn it. They both examine it closely under the kitchen light, making sure there is no sign of any moth-holes.
'I bought this suit in England,' says Joel's dad. 'In a place called Middlesbrough. I bought it off a Chinaman who came on board our ship while we were in port. I thought it was too expensive, but it's worn well.'
He shows Joel a label sewn into the jacket's inside pocket.
'There you see,' he says. 'Made in England. Your dad doesn't get dressed up in any old rubbish.'
Joel has to help fasten his dad's tie. He gets it wrong over and over again until he remembers exactly how to tie the knot. His father is puffing and complaining because his shirt is too tight.
'The suit's fine,' he says. 'It comes from England. But this shirt is some botched job by a useless tailor in Västergötland. It's much too tight.'
'Maybe it's the wrong size,' says Joel.
'Size and size,' says his dad. 'A shirt ought to fit, that's all there is to it.'
Then he dips his comb into some water and combs his unruly hair. Joel holds the shaving mirror so that his dad can check the back of his head.
'Do I look all right?' he asks eventually.
Joel walks round, inspecting him. He's not used to seeing his father dressed up. He wonders how many other boys have dads with a suit bought in England.
'I was wearing this suit when we got married,' says Samuel. 'Jenny, your mother, and me. I could have shown you, but she took the wedding photo with her.'
'Why do you never tell me about her?' asks Joel.
'I will do,' says his dad. 'But not just now. I have to go.'
'Will you be coming back home?' asks Joel.
'Of course I'll be coming back home,' says his father. 'I shan't be long. But she's sitting all on her own now, Evert's mum, crying her eyes out. We're all going to see her, all of us who used to work with him. Bosses from the forestry company have already been. Obviously, we have to go and visit her. Evert's dad didn't have to see his son die. He passed away a few years ago.'
He falls silent. Joel helps him on with his boots.
'Wave, won't you?' shouts Joel as his dad goes down the stairs.
When he emerges into the street, Samuel pauses and looks up at the window where Joel is perched. They wave to each other, then Samuel walks off down the street.
Joel carefully lifts Celestine out of her glass case and blows the dust away from her sails and the railings. He finds a dead fly in one of the holds. When he pokes it out with a match stalk, one of its wings falls off. The fly makes him think of Evert.
He doesn't want to. Not now. He shudders at the thought that he'd planned to go and lie down in a snowdrift and freeze to death.
He banishes the thought and puts Celestine back in her case. Then he picks out one of his dad's rolled-up sea charts and spreads it out on the kitchen table. He reads all the names and the depth soundings, and works out suitable routes for the ship he is captain of.
All this exists, he thinks. All this is lying in store for me. If Dad doesn't want to come with me, I'll go there myself one of these days . . .
He rolls up the chart and returns it to its place. Then he snuggles down in bed and carries on dreaming about the sea that's waiting for him out there . . .
He wakes up when his dad comes back home.
'How did it go?' he asks when Samuel looks in on him.
'Are you awake? I thought you were asleep.'
He comes in and sits on Joel's bed.
'It wasn't a very pleasant experience,' he says.
Joel sits up in bed and helps his father off with his tie. Samuel suddenly gives him a big hug.
'Go to sleep now,' he says.
Joel can see that his eyes are red. He leaves the room and before long, Joel hears him gargling in the kitchen. The radio is on at very low volume in his father's room. The bed creaks, and then the radio goes quiet.
Joel puts the alarm clock under his pillow. Then he goes back to sea in his thoughts, stands on the bridge and feels a warm breeze caressing his cheeks . . .
He woke up at midnight and got dressed, and now he's waiting for Ture in the shadow of a goods wagon.
His ears are skinned – he doesn't want Ture to creep up on him again without him hearing.
He turns round and tries to penetrate the darkness. He can hear an engine in the distance and wonders if it's The Old Bricklayer driving round in his lorry.
All of a sudden he finds Ture standing by his side. He's done it again.
'Where were you last night?' asks Ture.
Joel explains what happened. It's too dark for him to see if Ture believes him or not.
'Let's go,' says Ture when Joel has finished.
Joel follows him down to the bridge.
Ture stops under the enormous arches and suddenly produces a pair of shears he'd had hidden under his jacket.
'Now it's your turn,' he says. 'Last night I did what we'd agreed to do. I smeared her currant bushes with varnish. It's your turn tonight. You're going to cut the plants she has climbing up her walls with these shears.'
'We hadn't agreed to do anything,' says Joel. 'I didn't want to smear varnish over her currant bushes And I don't intend to cut back any of her plants.'
'Just as I thought,' says Ture. 'You're a coward.'
'I'm not a coward.'
'You daren't do it.'
'I do. But I don't want to.'
Ture looks scornfully at him.
'If you betray The Secret Society, you have to crawl over the arch,' he says, spitting. 'Well, you've betrayed it. You didn't turn up last night. I waited but you never appeared. In a Secret Society you don't come out with a series of excuses. You do what you've agreed to do.'
Ture gazes up at the high arches.
'Well, I'm waiting,' he says with a smirk.
The penny drops. Ture wants him to climb over one of the arches.
'I couldn't come last night,' he says. 'That's all there is to it.'
He wishes he'd said that in a firm voice. Instead of speaking so softly and hesitantly.
Ture holds out the pair of shears.
'It's the climbing plants or the bridge,' he says.
'But I've told you, I couldn't come!'
It sounded as if he were almost squeaking. A scared little baby bird that hardly dares to open its beak.
Joel tries to think. It's hard to think clearly when you have to think quickly. He knows that, but he hasn't yet learnt how to do it.
'I need a pee,' he says to gain time.
He takes a few strides to one side and turns his back on Ture.
'You could have a piss from the top of the bridge,' says Ture, and Joel can tell that he's smirking.
Joel unzips his flies and tries to produce a few drops while he thinks.
He doesn't want to clip any climbing plants. He doesn't want to climb over the arch either.
Why should Ture force him to choose between doing something that's wicked and something else that's also bad? He hasn't betrayed The Secret Society. There's no rule that says you mustn't oversleep.
Ture uses so many words, he thinks. He can talk till the cows come home. Joel feels angry.
He doesn't want to tip ants in through open windows and he doesn't want to smear currant bushes with varnish.
He wants to look for the dog.
