Beatles (20 page)

Mum straightened his rug. Dad tried to peel an orange but gave up. Granddad was old, twice as old as he had been at Christmas. I listened for the express, thought I heard singing rails from not so far away.

Granddad cleared his throat. His mouth was dry and small.

‘And Hubert’s going to Paris! Well, I never!’

Dad jumped up, his bottom lip quivering like a guitar string.

‘What did you say?’

‘Are you hard of hearing, too, now?’ Granddad shouted into his face.

‘When was Hubert here?’

‘Day before yesterday,’ Granddad shouted. ‘Or a week ago. I mix up all the days.’

‘And he said he was going to Paris?’

‘He was all set,’ Granddad said, giving us a mysterious look. ‘All set,’ he said. What did he mean by that?

Dad was busy. Granddad didn’t seem to notice that we had gone. We waved to him from the pavement, but he was looking elsewhere, in a different direction.

‘We’ll have to get this sorted out,’ said Dad.

With that he strode off to Marienlyst while Mum and I called in to see Grandma on the way home. She lived in Sorgenfrigate, in a dark room with loads of cushions and a budgerigar that chirruped in its cage and had an embroidered blanket placed on top every night so that it slept well.

I poked a finger through the bars but it got frightened and I could see its heart beating against its green breast.

The Wednesday before Maundy Thursday, Seb and I went to visit Fred. He opened the door with a look of astonishment on his face, then he burst into the broadest grin I have seen and let us in.

We took a seat in his room and chatted a bit about trains and swimming. Schoolbooks lay open on the table. Fred was studying during the holiday. Good grief.

‘Have you got a record player?’ Seb asked.

‘No, but I’m gettin’ one when I finish
realskole
. Mum’s promised me.’

‘You can come back to our places and listen to records,’ Seb put in quickly.

‘Can I?’

‘Course,’ Seb said. ‘We take all the records to mine and we play ’em all evenin’.’

Fred started to laugh. Think he was enjoying himself.

‘Which band d’you like best?’ I asked.

He wasn’t quite sure and wiped his mouth.

‘Don’t really know,’ he said.

‘You don’t know!’ we said in unison.

‘Yes, I do.’

We waited with bated breath. He moistened his lips.

‘The Beatles.’

That was it. He was one of us. All settled.

‘What do you think about
Rubber Soul?
’ Seb asked.

Fred looked at him in despair.

‘Røbber?’

‘Yes,
Rubber Soul
.’

‘What’s that?’ Fred whispered.

Seb glanced at me. I studied my lap. Fred’s breathing was heavy.

‘Latest Beatles LP,’ Seb said, relaxed. ‘Really good. You can hear it at my place.’

‘Haven’t heard any records,’ Fred said quietly. ‘Just listen to ’em on the radio. When Mum isn’t at home.’

‘Why do you like The Beatles best then?’ I burst out, and I regretted it at once because it was a pretty stupid question.

‘Because they’ve made it,’ Fred said.

‘Eh? Made what?’

‘Made it. I mean, they’re millionaires and world famous and so on. Normal workin’ class boys.’

We went dead quiet. Normal working class boys. Made it. My head spun. We’d never thought like that before. Fred Hansen had as good as never heard a Beatles record. I supposed Fred was a working class boy.

‘I need the loo,’ Seb said, getting up.

‘The key’s in the kitchen,’ Fred said.

‘The key?’

We followed hard on Fred’s heels into the kitchen. He took down a key hanging from a nail beside the door.

‘You have to go up to the first or the second floor,’ Fred said.

Seb’s eyes widened. Then he smiled a wry smile, took the key and ran up the stairs.

He was away quite a long time. Then he came rushing down, breathless and red-faced.

‘Never had a shit so high up before,’ he shouted. ‘Didn’t hear it landin’ though!’

‘I have to go, too,’ I said and was given the key, sprinted up the uneven stairs and found the cubicle.

The smell was dreadful. There were squares of newspapers to wipe yourself with, the toilet roll was finished. Exactly the same hole as in the outside toilet at Nesodden! But in a block of flats? In the town? On the second floor! This was unbelievable. I didn’t want to go after all, waited a while, then ran back down.

‘Think of the men who have to shovel all that shit!’ Seb said. ‘Think of that, eh!’

‘Shall we go down to the cellar?’ Fred suggested.

‘The cellar?’

‘Got rats there.’

Fred fetched a flat torch and then we crept down the stairs into the darkness and the smell of mildew. He coaxed open a wooden door, it made a befittingly eerie creaking noise. He shone the torch round, but it didn’t help much. It was better when our eyes were used to the dark. Then the cellar loomed up, brick walls, sacks of coke, old bicycles, skis, a mattress.

Fred pointed the torch.

‘A girl had it off on that,’ he said.

We looked at the mattress. Green and filthy with large brown stains. The ceiling dripped.

We ventured in further, on tiptoes, jumped as a train passed, we were beneath the rails, beneath the train. Our bodies gave a strange shudder.

Fred indicated the wall. There were holes in the plaster.

‘Bullet holes,’ Fred said. ‘From the war. They shot a Nazi sympathiser down here. An informer.’

We stared at the wall, lowered our gaze slowly to the floor. Oh, shit, that’s where he stood. He fell there. There were holes in the wall from the bullets. Jesus.

Then we saw it. The rat. A fat, black rat with a long tail and a pointed face. It looked at us and seemed to cower. Fred grabbed a broomstick and crept towards it with flapping trouser legs. It darted away. We cheered and ran after it, into another room, we followed it as it zigzagged across the stone floor.

‘We’ve got it!’ Fred shouted. ‘We’ve got it!’

We had it. We had driven it towards the wall. We had driven it into a corner. There it turned and stared at us. Its pointed white teeth gleamed. A rat. Seb and I retreated a little. Fred stood with the broom raised ready to strike. The rat hissed. Then it was suddenly gone. Fred looked at us in amazement. Then he screamed. Had never heard a scream like it. The rat was in his trousers. It had run up his trouser leg. We saw the bulge moving towards his thigh. Fred screamed and spun round and round.

‘Take off your pants!’ Seb shouted. ‘Take off your pants!’

The rat was right up by his hip. Fred howled, put his hands to his face and howled. Then he ran against the wall. He ran at full speed and launched himself at the wall. We heard the crunch as his hip struck the wall. Then he sank down onto the floor and lay perfectly still. The bundle in his trousers also lay still. After a while he opened his eyes, looked at us, unbuttoned his trousers and then with great care we removed them. A crushed rat tumbled out.

We manoeuvred him onto his feet and carried him out of the room fighting for breath and trembling. I turned and saw the big bloodstained rat in the light of the torch.

Fred’s mother was in the kitchen. Her chin dropped when we arrived, dragging Fred between us, Fred wearing only underpants and with rat blood down his thigh.

‘Where are your pants?’ she asked.

Fred was unable to answer.

‘In the cellar,’ I said. ‘Fred wanted to show us some bullet holes and a rat appeared.’

She took his arm, pulled him over to the window and took out a sturdy washing-up bowl. We picked up our clothes and wandered home on the day before Maundy Thursday, 1966. Slept badly that night. Dreamt about rats and thought I felt something moving in my pyjamas.

We had expected Gunnar to come home as black as the ace of spades, he usually did after Easter, but his cheeks were only a little caramel-coloured.

‘Did you stay indoors all the time?’ Seb asked as we sat in his room waiting for Ola, as usual.

No, he didn’t, not at all. It was hard work extracting from Gunnar what he had done over Easter, he was distant and giggly, yeah, well, he had done a bit of skiing, listened to Radio Luxemburg, not long to summer now, is it. He sat like that drivelling on for a quarter of an hour. Seb and I exchanged glances and shook our heads.

‘Great Easter then,’ I summarised.

Yeah. Top notch. Totally wonderful Easter. Already looking forward to next Easter. Wonderful pistes. And good milk. Good milk in the country. Better than in town. Closer to the cows. Straight up.

Gunnar had gone nuts. We tried to tell him about Fred and the rat, but it was like water off a duck’s back. He sat there with his rictus smile saying it was terrible, about the rat, terrible. That was all.

Then he went quiet. We waited for Ola.

‘Can’t’ve crashed the tractor again, can he?’ Seb said.

After half an hour we took the matter into our own hands and sloped over to his place. His sister, Åse, sixth class in Urra with a freckled nose, opened the door. We showed off and patted her head, but that just made her prickly.

‘Ola,’ we commanded.

‘You can’t see him,’ she said.

We peered down at her.

‘He hasn’t been on the tractor again, has he?’ I asked.

She shook her head vigorously.

‘Why can’t we see him?’

‘He doesn’t want to see you!’

‘Are your parents at home?’ I asked.

‘No, but they’ll be back soon!’

‘Is Klara here?’ Seb asked.

‘Klara? Who?’

We pushed our way in, stomped across the floor and tore open the door to Ola’s room. There was a pungent smell of ointment. He was in bed. Under the duvet. We just saw two clenched fists holding up the cover.

‘Hiya, Ola,’ we said. ‘How’s it goin’?’

‘Go away!’ he hissed. He
hissed
.

‘Somethin’ happened or what?’ Seb enquired.

Not a sound. He lay there motionless. So we started to pull the duvet away. It wasn’t easy. There were great forces recumbent in that bed. He kicked out wildly, but we overpowered him. In the end he abandoned his resistance and we folded the duvet neatly to the side.

It was the reddest red I had seen. His face was as red as a Christmas candle. He looked unhappy.

‘Go away,’ he whispered.

‘Was there
that
much sun in Toten this year?’ we asked.

He rolled over. His face squeaked.

‘Go away,’ he repeated. ‘I’m never gonna g-g-get up again.’

We perched on the edge of his bed. His hair had been almost burnt off. The tips were curly. One whole-head perm.

‘Did the barn burn down?’ Seb asked.

His sister stood in the doorway with her hands against her back, rocking from side to side and giggling.

‘Ola, Ola, who’s Klara?’

He rolled back to face us. It was impossible to blush with your skin that colour. But his eyes darkened.

‘T-t-traitors,’ he said.

‘Necessary evil,’ we protested. ‘We had to make sure before we invaded your room.’

‘Go away,’ he whimpered. ‘G-g-go!’

We ambled home. It turned out that Ola’s grandfather had bought a sunlamp through a mail order firm. On the last day Ola had fallen asleep in front of it and sat there for over an hour. He had burnt through three layers of skin and singed his hair.

‘See you at school tomorrow,’ Seb said, flicking his Ascot cigarette end over his shoulder. ‘Probably be a while before Ola returns.’

Gunnar and I walked on. Gunnar was taciturn and distant. Some way up Bygdøy Allé I stopped him.

‘What’s happened to you?’ I asked.

‘Met a girl.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Unni. Her name’s Unni. Lives on a farm. Really nice.’

We continued walking beneath the bare chestnut trees.

‘Are you together, proper like?’ I asked.

‘Yep. Think so. Gonna write to each other. Gonna visit her in the summer.’

‘What’s she look like?’

Gunnar stared into the air as if he could catch a glimpse of her there.

‘Very good-lookin’. Blonde hair. Blonde hair and…’

He didn’t say any more. There was a pause. A long pause. He ran ahead. I caught him up.

‘Long-distance relationships are okay,’ I said.

He looked at me.

‘How’s that?’

‘I mean it’s pretty wearin’ if you’re in the same school.’

Gunnar gave that one some thought.

‘Yes, but it could’ve been a bit closer.’

Ola crept out from under the duvet after two weeks, pink and well. He arrived with the sun and the spring. The snow flowed down the drains, everything was flooded and birds flew in from abroad. One night when I could not fall asleep I opened the window and filled my lungs with the night air. There was a noise above me, Jensenius opening his window, he greeted me and the sound of his voice resounded over the town.

Yes, indeed. It had to be spring.

Uncle Hubert came for lunch one Sunday. He looked better, wandered around a bit and rolled potatoes across the table, but otherwise all went well. Hubert was happy, that was the main thing. His eyes had a tranquil sheen.

After we had eaten, I asked, ‘Is it true you’re moving to Paris?’

Dad was on me like a pair of scissors.

‘Weren’t you going to the cellar to fix your bike?’ he said as gently as he was able.

Hubert found the way to a chair and collapsed in a soft heap.

‘Just a little trip,’ he said. ‘A short visit.’

Dad ushered me out of the room.

‘And don’t come home late,’ he said.

He was brittle, like a hard rubber. One day I would go to Paris, too. I swore I would and slammed the door after me. I trudged down to the cellar and before I could find the light switch I was overcome by terror. Rats. Then the light came on and I breathed a sigh of relief. There weren’t any rats here. But Fred had gone to school after Easter wearing the same trousers. The same trousers. His eyes went shifty when he saw me. I had to look away.

I rolled the bike out early that Sunday evening and headed for Gunnar’s. A warm wind was swirling up the dust and the sand on
the pavement. I whistled cheerfully and found Gunnar in his room, bent over a piece of pink paper with a magnifying glass in front of his face.

‘What you up to?’ I asked, taking a seat on the windowsill. He cleared his throat and put down the magnifying glass.

‘Her handwritin’ is so damn hard to read,’ he said, desperate.

‘Shall I have a go?’ I suggested.

He looked at me with suspicion, hesitated for a moment, then passed me the letter.

I read it through quickly, the style was quite stilted, worse than a school essay. I pressed my nose against the ink and peered over at Gunnar.

‘Perfume,’ I said.

‘Read!’ he said.

I read slowly, ‘“Darlin’ Gunnar.”’

The letters I received from Nina didn’t start like that. There was just a ‘Hiya’ or a ‘Hello’.

‘What’s up?’ Gunnar shouted.

I went on.

‘“Darlin’ Gunnar.”’

‘I’ve heard that!’

‘“Darling Gunnar. I think about you all the time. At night, too.”’

I stopped and looked at Gunnar. He was over by the door, working out with hand weights. The sweat was pouring off him.

‘“I’m looking forward to you coming here. I’m counting the days on my fingers. But maybe I’ll go to Oslo first.”’

Gunnar shrieked.

‘Comin’ here!’

‘“But maybe I’ll go to Oslo first,”’ I repeated. ‘“You see, my mother’s going to Oslo the second weekend in May.”’

Gunnar was lying on his back with his arms hanging down at his sides.

‘That’s okay, isn’t it?’

He closed his eyes.

‘Yes. But the mother. They may come here. And see my parents.’

‘You could just meet her, couldn’t you?’

‘Be a bit difficult. Her mother was after us with the hayfork the
whole time.’ Some kids were playing footie down in the street, smashed a window and ran for their lives.

‘Relax,’ I said. ‘We’re goin’ to Denmark then.’

He sat up with a start.

‘You’re right! If we’re selected.’

‘Of course we will be. We’ll go and see Kåre tomorrow!’

He lay back down and all was quiet for a long time. Then he said, ‘Bad luck, us bein’ away like that. But there’s nothin’ to be done, is there!’

‘Nothing,’ I said.

‘Go on,’ said Gunnar.

‘“I think I’m in love with you, Gunnar.”’

‘You don’t have to keep sayin’ Gunnar, do you! I know who she means!’

‘That’s what it says here!’

He folded his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

‘“I think a lot about the last evening when you…”’

Gunnar was on me like an elk, tearing the letter away and stuffing it in his pocket.

‘Hadn’t finished,’ I smiled.

‘That’ll do fine,’ he said.

‘What were you doin’ on the last evenin’, eh?’

The door opened, it was Stig, wearing the fabulous waisted jacket with stripes, with hair right down over his forehead and eyebrows like the crest of a wave, and boots that curled at the tip. He stood there, tall and rangy, odd that, that Gunnar and he were so different.

‘Lend me a tenner, will you,’ Stig asked.

‘What you gonna do with it?’

‘That’s neither here nor there. You’ll get it back tomorrow,’ he said and added: ‘Goin’ to Pernille.’

Gunnar took ten kroner from a drawer.

‘Great,’ said Stig. ‘Great! My records are at your disposal.’

He had a badge on the lapel of his jacket, looked like a star.

‘What’s that?’ I asked, pointing.

‘Victory to the Front National de Liberté,’ he said.

‘Are the Americans still droppin’ napalm?’ I wondered.

‘Yes, and how. But the FNL will soon chase ’em out.’

He went into a crouch and sprayed the room with bullets. Then he was gone.

Guerrilla.

We sat for a while looking at the open door. Then Gunnar pulled out the crumpled letter and smoothed it on his thigh.

‘Let’s read the rest,’ he said.

‘Let’s,’ I said, sitting beside him.

We all went, the whole gang. It cost a hundred kroner and Mum and Dad had promised to pay, and I had enough pocket money already, fifty shiny ones. Five o’clock, the first Friday in May, we were on our way. It was a big deal. It was the biggest. The weather had done an about-turn, cold fronts and gales were back. But it didn’t matter. We were going south. We went up the gangway in single file with rucksacks, sleeping bags and new football boots. It was a solemn occasion, so solemn that our backs straightened and our heads were held high. But inside smouldered a wild joy, a bonfire of expectations that would set the whole of Denmark alight.

It was half an hour to departure. We were directed to the bottom of the ship where we were to sleep in reclining seats. Åge stood on a chair and shouted:

‘Alright, lads, I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: this is not your average holiday trip! We’re going to play football! We’re going to trounce the Danes!’

We stamped in rhythm and sang the Frigg chant. Åge calmed us down.

‘And you know all this, too, but I’ll tell you once more anyway! Do you hear me?’

‘Yes!’ we shouted.

‘Has everyone got food vouchers?’

‘Yes!’ we shouted.

‘It’ll buy you a meal in the cafeteria at the back of the boat. Before seven o’clock! Okay?’

‘Yes!’ we shouted.

‘And all of you, you have to be back down here by ten! By ten!’

‘Yes,’ came the response, with a little less enthusiasm.

‘And alcohol! Alcohol is off-limits!’

A few scattered shouts.

‘Anyone caught drinking alcohol will be dropped from the team! Understood!’

The ship lurched. It was approaching five. We charged upstairs and onto the deck. All our parents were standing on the quayside waving like crazy. Then the gangway was removed and the boat slipped away, reversed and turned on a five øre coin.

We leaned over the gunnels with the wind whipping tears from our eyes.
King Olav
cut through the waves. Oslo fjord was a nightmare. Gunnar and Ola were green in the gills before we had passed Nesodden.

I pointed to the shore.

‘There’s the House!’ I cried.

Then we were past it. Ola’s head was drooping.

‘I-i-if it’s rocky here, think what it’s g-g-gonna be like after Færder lighthouse!’

Gunnar moaned.

‘My dad’s been on the sea with waves twenty metres high,’ Seb boasted. ‘The Atlantic. They were so high they couldn’t see the sky when they were in a trough!’

Ola went first, by Drøbak. Gunnar clung to the railing.

The gulls hovered above and below us. You could stretch out a hand and pat them on the beak.

‘Let’s go and get somethin’ to eat,’ Seb said.

That was when Gunnar disappeared. He staggered off holding a hand over his mouth. Seb and I looked at each other.

‘Landlubbers!’ he grinned.

Gunnar and Ola were out of the running. They had been given some seasickness tablets by Åge and were laid out. Seb and I ate red sausages and mashed potatoes and later that evening we found the midfield and strikers up on the sun deck. It was dark, they were laughing and gulls were screaming. They were standing by the wall with five miniature bottles of Larsen cognac and three Tuborgs.

‘All Danish girls bang like shithouse doors,’ the right wing said. His eyes glowed like redcurrants.

‘Do you know what “to have it off” is in Danish?’ the centre half said. ‘
Kneppe
!’

‘To button?’

‘I’m going to
kneppe
my trousers!’ the right wing howled and the laughter spread through the darkness.

We sensed a large shadow standing behind us. Everything went quiet. Åge. White hands and red eyes. Then, so help me, he switched on a torch and shone it in our faces. More and more faces appeared, they loomed up out of the dark, face after face, a luminous white in the beam from Åge’s torch. It was more or less the whole team. He didn’t want the game against Fremad to be a walkover.

Åge sighed.

‘Throw the bottles over board,’ he said.

A few seconds passed. Åge switched off the torch.

‘I can’t see you,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to see you.’

Arms swung through the air. A gull screamed.

Åge switched the torch back on.

‘Poor do,’ he said.

Then he herded us down to where the deadbeats were reclined, gasping through open mouths, with lifeless pupils and stomachs like barrage balloons. The waves crashed through us. Aksel was the first to throw up. It splashed onto the floor. Then it was the right wing’s turn. I held my stomach, but it didn’t help. I sprinted for the toilet, stood with the rest of the defence and emptied my guts like a bucket. Seb was the only one to survive. He lay back sleeping and snoring with a tiny grin on his face, and somewhere up in heaven there was dance music and the cries of seagulls.

We arrived in Denmark with our guts inside out, we were driven by coach through Copenhagen and installed in a school. The pitch was close by, green and soft. We limped through the first training session. The match was due to start at five.

Åge paced up and down with a furrowed brow talking tactics.

‘Denmark is better technically,’ he said. ‘They play a Polish game. But we’ll outdo them in fitness. We’ll wear them down. Long balls. Make them work. Make them run themselves into the ground!’

At twelve there was a break. I asked Åge if I could take a couple of hours off because I had family in Copenhagen and I wanted to visit them.

He gave me a sceptical look.

‘Can you find your way around alone?’

‘Christ, yes. Been here loads of times.’

‘Back by three then.’

I raced down to the changing room, showered and put on clean clothes, a new roll neck sweater, burgundy. Hair didn’t look half bad either. When it was wet I could fold it behind my ears and it flipped up at the back. I rushed out into the street, patted my pocket where I kept my money, fifty Norwegian kroner gave you sixty Danish kroner and Dad had got me the best rate at the bank. A taxi drew up, I jumped in, wowee, I was on my way to see Nina.

The driver whistled and ate a Danish pastry.

The taxi meter ticked away like a clock. I had no idea how far it was to Strandvejen.

‘I’ve only got sixty kroner,’ I stammered.

He glanced over his shoulder with crumbs around his satisfied mouth.

‘Uhuh. Only sixty kroner, sonny Jim. That’s enough to get you all the way to bloody Norway!’

I pressed my nose against the glass. Strange to be in a completely new place. Tingle of excitement. Pigeons. Hot dog stalls. Black bikes. I rolled down the window. Bakery smells. Freshly baked cakes and bread.

I leaned back against the seat, closed my eyes and felt happy. Happy and completely calm, couldn’t remember ever experiencing that before. I could balance on the tightrope now without a safety net, without a pole, that’s how calm I was. For a moment I struggled to recall what Nina looked like, but now she was taking shape, her face was close to mine, her features quite distinct, I could feel her breath and her hair. Apple. That’s how she was. I slumped back into the seat as we drove along Øresund with white yachts bobbing up and down against the light blue sky.

It cost twenty kroner. Strandvejen 41 was quite a handsome house with a large garden and a view of Sweden. I wasn’t so calm any more. Fear lay like a needle in my stomach. I straightened my hair behind a fence post, took a deep breath and walked through the gate. It was a long way to the house, several hundred metres at least. Perhaps she had seen me from the window already. She must have been waiting. I almost broke into a run and finally reached the door. I couldn’t
hear a sound. She hadn’t seen me yet. Then I rang. Time passed. Someone came. It was her mother. She cast a gentle eye over me. My voice had deserted me.

‘Do you want to see Nina?’ she asked.

Was she out of her mind? Didn’t she recognise me? My heart slowly drained into my boots.

Then she remembered me.

‘But aren’t you… aren’t you Kim?’

I was. I feared the worst.

‘Do come in. Nina’s in her room.’

I followed her. It was too late to turn round now. Strangely enough, I was calmness itself again, as though I had reached the other side, where I had nothing more to lose.

‘Nina’s going to be surprised,’ her mother chatted. ‘Are you here with your parents?’

Hadn’t she received my letter? Hadn’t she read it? Hadn’t she told her parents I was on my way?

I didn’t care.