In Search of Mary (8 page)

He says he still can’t believe that she’s gone. It’s hard to know what to say to a heartbroken sea captain. I want to tell
him about Wollstonecraft’s heartbreak, only it doesn’t seem helpful. Just then Gunnar the dark horse unexpectedly joins in, with some tales of his own. A disastrous love affair, a new romance when he least expected it; love at first sight with a wonderful woman. They now have two young children. “But I’m too old for this; I had a crisis when I was fifty-five that I was too old to be doing this.”

A tender moment between a salty sea dog and an introverted historian, afloat at sea, is the last thing I’d expected. I’m managing with some difficulty to contain my regular exclamations on the completely fantastic, amazing brilliance of the sea, the sky, the jellyfish, the boat, the cinnamon buns. I sit in unusual silence, the map and the book propped on my knees, while they unburden their hearts.

Wollstonecraft praises Norwegian pilots as being the best in the world. And they certainly had to be:

The pilots lived in small houses dotting the islands, and earned a living by guiding passing vessels through the rocks and round the shores. It was a competitive business: pilots would all rush out to an approaching ship, and the first one to get there would fling himself aboard, thereby claiming the reward of steering it around. His abandoned boat would then be brought back
in, sometimes by his children. It wasn’t uncommon for pilots to die attempting to throw themselves on board.

Human frailty in the face of these fierce, wild shores affects Wollstonecraft deeply, but it’s not only herself she pities. She begins to spin out a thread of thought revealing her love for humanity, and her curious mind at its best. Wollstonecraft is inspired to imagine a future, a couple of million years hence, when earth would be

It’s not for another few years that the man whose name has become shorthand for over-population, Thomas Robert Malthus, visits this part of the world. In 1799 he visits with the travel writer Edward Daniel Clarke, who, as it happens, is reading
Letters from Norway
. Around the same time, Malthus publishes his famous book,
An Essay on the Principle of Population
. In it, he argues that continued population growth will lead to poverty and famine. Once again, our gal Wolly is ahead of the curve.

She hopes to press onwards to Risør, but her journey is broken sooner than she expects. Darkness and bad weather force them ashore at a tiny place called Portør. “It is indeed a corner of the world,” she writes. And it’s here that we plan to make
our first stop of the day. I think back to reading about Portør at home, and how long it took me to find it on the map. It is a miniscule coastal fleck, dwarfed even by the letters of its own name. Mick jumps to his feet as we approach. Passing a number of islands, through a tiny channel into a natural harbour, we find the modest cluster of wooden houses that is Portør.

The miracle of approaching land on a boat is how the world gradually returns itself to you. The land comes into focus, revealing itself bit by bit until suddenly there you are, about to leave the floating existence and become solid, normal again. It’s dull to be standing on earth once more, I feel stunted. Like rushing off the end of an airport travelator, abruptly back on your own disappointing legs.

We moor up – and there on the jetty is a striking woman. She’s a “local person of interest” that Per thought we should meet. Her name is Grethe Rønning Clausen; she is tanned, elegantly dressed and glamorous. She could be about seventy or eighty, but somehow I couldn’t possibly ask. Grethe offers us black coffee and princess cake, an oversized vanilla sponge in the shape of a flower, drizzled with icing. Will clasps a chunk in his hands, and I carry him in my arms as we all wander about.

Portør is tiny and bright. The sea is encircled by round soaring rocks, smooth enough to walk up – indeed they invite you. Wollstonecraft ends part of her letter here saying “Adieu! I must trip up the rocks”. The hill-like rocks have pockets of moss, tufted grass and wild flowers. Several perfectly round holes in the surface near the top have become bright puddles reflecting the sky. A lookout post clings to the upper slopes,
from which the pilots would keep watch, staring out on the sea all around.

Next door to Grethe’s house is a small green lawn that was the original site of the place we visited at this morning, the portable house that came from Portør to Kragerø to be lived in centuries later by Yoga Lady. Mick is clearly taken by Grethe, and they fall into maritime reminiscences. When she was young she would sail to Kragerø, bringing the pilot boat back on her own. Grethe has a quiet voice, and when we settle down so I can record her, Mick keeps bursting in and talking about his boat, and Will crawls around exclaiming, and seagulls shriek overhead. I lean in closer as she begins her tale:

“We were from different regions of Norway. Everyone said it wouldn’t last, for we were so different. But I loved him from the first time I saw him. It was a festival day in Norway. There was a fair, and I saw someone arriving on a boat, a very nice boy, but I didn’t talk to him. That night there was a party with dancing. I went along with my girl friend from school, and she had on a red suit with pearls. And that special young man, he always got to dance with her.”

Grethe’s blue eyes twinkle: this story has the feel of a favourite. She enjoys her audience, and we’re all captivated.

“I said to my mum: I don’t think it’s nice here and I want to go home. I stood beside this girl, and we saw him coming back, and I said to her, now he’s coming to dance with you again. But then he saw me. And I saw him. And yes, that was it: done. The first thing he said to me was, had I changed my shoes? I said yes, it was too warm. We’d never talked before, but
he had noticed me. We started dancing. I was only seventeen years old. It was a beautiful spring.”

The special young man who arrived on a boat was a seventh-generation pilot from Portør, and Grethe married him and came here to live with him.

“The life of pilots was so hard and dangerous. Seven pilots lived here in Portør, and they had to compete for work. As you know, the first person on board the ship got the job. One time my husband’s uncle, also a pilot, knew that a ship was coming that night. He had placed his clothes by the bed when he slept, so that he could be the first one up. When he got up he leapt into his wife’s clothes by accident. But he still got the job!”

Grethe has not only heard of Wollstonecraft, she brings out her own copy – an old hardback edition of
Letters from Norway
in Norwegian.

“It’s very nice,” she says, flicking through the pages. “She had to be strong at the time, hundreds of years ago. I can’t imagine how she could make it, and with a little child too.”

The bare wildness of the surrounding land is in stark contrast with the inside of Grethe’s home. It’s a special place. Photos of generations of smiling children cover the walls; her house is bustling with lace curtains, chandeliers and trinkets. One windowsill alone is populated by two bowls of flowers placed on lace doilies, a miniature gas lamp, two sailor figurines standing next to a china lighthouse, three china cockerels, a yellow duckling wearing a flower necklace, a white jug and two sleeping china babies.

It’s hard not to feel a strong affection for Portør. Wollstone-craft sleeps well in what she calls this “little haven”, and she dreams about baby Frances, left behind:

She feels unusually content here, despite the dangerous weather they’ve fled and the darkness of the mission ahead. She seems surprised, even caught out by her own tranquillity: “Let me catch pleasure on the wing – I may be melancholy tomorrow.” These dreamt tiny footsteps make me turn towards the retreating figure of Will with extra love, recalling the painful spike of imagining an absent child. Wollstonecraft moves on to the “cleanliness and comfort of the dwelling”. Her landlady, just like Grethe, has “individual taste”. Wollstonecraft rather ungraciously adds: “they live here very cheap … I suspect, by their furniture, that they smuggle a little.”

Portør is magical, but like our heroine I’m anxious to press on for Risør. We take our leave of Grethe, waving as we adjust to being back on board the
Anjava
. I carry on waving for a bit longer than is necessary, as the kindly haven of Portør slips away from us. We push on, back out into the open sea. Everyone falls quiet. Something about being out at sea makes me want to freeze time: I don’t want this to end. It’s more windy now, and the sky has darkened to a deeper blue.

We’ve been purposefully at sea for some time when a strange thing happens. Suddenly the engine cuts out and the boat begins to lurch. Mick shouts “Don’t panic!” and springs up, hastily putting up the sails and running around the decks. We’re doubly shocked: first the sudden absence of the engine
noise, then the rocking. It’s as though we have turned from a Colin Archer into a mere cork, bobbing on top of the waves.

I go below deck holding Will tight, passing him to Gunnar as I unfold his buggy and put the brake on. It’s idiotic to be faffing with a buggy while the boat plunges from side to side, but at least it’s something to do. Gunnar has gone shiny and grey, and says he’s feeling seasick. I take Will off him and, struggling to keep my feet firmly planted, strap him into the buggy. Cupboard doors start to swing and crash; the movement is surprisingly violent.

I admit to myself that this is most definitely scary. The stupidity of boats presents itself with force: water isn’t where humans are meant to be.
Anjava
may well be far superior to Wollstonecraft’s vessel, but the sea is still the sea. The movement is all wild and wrong. Things roll out of cupboards, the cutlery swings and crashes around, the curtains flap outwards: it’s like a poltergeist scene from a cheap horror movie. Up on deck, Mick has cut his hand and is bleeding. As he hoists the sails, he shouts that without the engine we can’t go on: we are against the wind. We can’t go on to Risør, but will be blown back the way we came.

Then, just as inexplicably, the engine restarts and we are jolted back into action. No one knows why. Mick looks annoyed not to have an explanation; he chunters for a while about air bubbles in the fuel. We settle back into our places up on deck. No one admits how frightening it was. The sea has reminded us who’s boss, but we’re still afloat, and we’re still heading for Risør. I feel a renewed love for
Anjava
and a nauseous gratitude. I’m beginning to understand why people develop such personal relationships with their boats.

Gunnar’s face resumes its normal colour, and he holds Will in his arms. He looks so gentle holding Will, I can’t help staring. It is strange to see someone holding someone that you love – it’s almost a form of intimacy. Gunnar’s face seems to express something deep. Unsure why I feel the need to dispel the moment, I make a banal comment about babies being excellent hot-water bottles. Will looks over at me, and his eyes are deep blue like the blueness all around. He rubs his face, then without any protest he falls asleep right there on Gunnar’s chest.

Onwards to Risør, I am buoyed up by the mini-drama of the temperamental boat on the high seas. It feeds into the thrill of our imminent arrival in Risør. What will it look like? What will we find? Mick and Gunnar will leave us here and head back home. I feel clingy, as though we all belong together. I don’t want it to be over. Is this what happens on boats – the interdependence, the team-building thing? Maybe I’m tired and cold, and in truth, perhaps a bit nervous. The next leg of the journey, after all, is the place that Wollstonecraft absolutely hated.

Risør is the westernmost point of Wollstonecraft’s journey. This small town is hugely important: she will meet Captain Peder Ellefsen here and challenge him about the missing silver. Her success depends on the outcome of this meeting: this is her chance to prove herself and regain Imlay’s affections. She must be yearning for the sweet offer he dangled – the promise to come and join them for a holiday. He suggests Basel; she eagerly wonders if he could come sooner and join them in Hamburg. Something to look forward to. But first, to business. As we turn along the ragged coastline, island after island,
rocks folding into rocks, I return to the pages of
Letters from Norway
with a sense of foreboding.

Wollstonecraft detests Risør with a venom that’s strong even by her standards. The seedy people, dark smoky houses and glowering cliffs – everything here causes her disgust. “To be born here was to be bastilled by nature!” And she doesn’t stop there: “There is a shrewdness in the character of these people, depraved by a sordid love of money, which repels me.” Yet more inadequate dental hygiene: “disgusting” teeth. And although the men stink, the women aren’t bothered: “It is well that the women are not very delicate, or they would only love their husbands because they were their husbands.” Hey Wollstonecraft, why not tell us how you really feel about Risør?

Will and I are to be hosted by Norway’s only communist mayor: Knut Henning Thygesen. Despite everything she says about the place, the mayor of Risør is a Wollstonecraft enthusiast and has offered us a place to stay for a few days. But he’s away on holiday. Will and I will be on our own among the looming cliffs, where the “tremendous bulwarks enclosed” her “on every side”, so that Wollstonecraft feels she can scarcely breathe. My expectations are low.