Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 34 - The Woman on the Beach

Then he went to talk to his mother, Benedikte, and his grandfather, Henning, because he regarded them as the most important members of the family.

One evening late in winter, they were shivering slightly despite the stove’s valiant attempts to warm up the old living room at Linden Avenue. However, the cold outside was harsh, and found its way mercilessly through the cracks around the windows, which couldn’t be closed tightly. Benedikte’s tray of tea and freshly baked scones did a lot to mitigate the cold draught in the room.

“I’ve examined all three of us now,” André said. “Vetle, Christa and myself, and I can assure you that none of us is either stricken or chosen.”

“Who did you suspect the most?” Benedikte wanted to know.

“Vetle, but I’ve been keeping an eye on him for years, asking wily questions by setting up psychological traps for him, and there’s nothing there.”

“What is your conclusion then?” asked Henning.

André paused as he dipped his scone in his tea, so that the butter floated in shiny circles. “Probably the same as yours.”

All were silent for a while, hesitating to broach the new problem.

Finally, Benedikte spoke. “That woman Vanja met thirteen years ago, on the beach by the Trondheim Fjord, gave birth to a strange-looking child.”

“Yes,” Henning replied, “and with features similar to those of many of the Ice People. I’ve thought about that incident a lot. The woman or the child’s father could have been descended from the Ice People.”

All three looked at one another.

“Then we know who we’re thinking of,” said Benedikte.

“Descendants of Christer Grip,” murmured André.

Henning replied: “So far, we have heard nothing about him or his possible descendants. But it’s certainly a possibility.”

“If so, we may have lots of relatives,” said Benedikte.

“That may not be the case. The Ice People never have many children. They tend to have only one child.”

Benedikte summed up. “Let’s wait and see! Christer Grip was two or three years old when he disappeared in ... 1777, was it? Well, yes, thereabouts. A rich man took charge of him and travelled up towards the area around Stockholm. It’s a great leap in time and space from there to a poor girl on a beach by the Trondheim Fjord.”

“If you are to begin searching, André,” said Henning, “you can use Christer Grip and his era as your point of departure. Although back then, every possible attempt was made to find him.”

André nodded. “I must begin with the woman on the beach. And then work my way backwards in time. I don’t think I’ll get very far.”

“I’m afraid you’re right. All we know is that her name was Petra and that everybody let her down.”

André got to his feet. “Wait. I’ll fetch the book in which Vanja wrote her account.”

“Fine.”

André was soon back with one of the thick volumes containing the history of the family.

“Let’s see,” he said as he turned the pages. “Here it is. Vanja certainly had beautiful handwriting.”

Benedikte sighed. “Yes, poor Vanja! My little sister, whom we couldn’t do much for!”

“I think she’s doing fine where she is,” Henning said calmly. “However, at the time when she met poor Petra by the Trondheim Fjord, she must have been fifteen years old. Vanja, I mean.”

“Yes,” André replied. “That was in 1899, thirteen years ago, when Petra was seventeen.”

“Poor little girl,” murmured Benedikte.

André read to them: “Petra was a sweet, simple, naive girl. Naive in the best meaning of the word. Things must have gone wrong for her at an early age. Her first child had been taken from her. To the or ... I didn’t catch what she meant. But she was stigmatized while the child’s father – a distinguished married man with a liking for innocent young girls – went free. A civil servant whispered to me that he was considered a real charmer who had a way with the ladies. The father of her second child was a lad who worked at the local foundry. But his parents wouldn’t allow him to marry the girl, especially as she had such a bad reputation.”

“Good gracious!” muttered Benedikte. “Those moralists, what do they know?”

André continued to read from Vanja’s account. “I didn’t get to know very much about Petra, either from her or from anyone I spoke to afterwards. Her name was Petra Olsdatter and she was from the area around Trondheim. I believe her mother came from a good family, but she died young. The father turned out to be a drunkard who neglected Petra. He was livid the first time she got pregnant and chucked her out. Since then, nobody had cared for her.”

“Good God!” whispered Benedikte.

Henning sighed. “We didn’t get much information there. But at least you have something. After Petra’s death there was a hearing, so there must be a record of the court proceedings or something like that. Hopefully, that will give you more leads.”

“Yes,” said André. “That also occurred to me. So do you think I ought to go to Trondheim?”

They looked at him. André was a handsome young man with medium-blond hair and eyes that were steadfast and honest. They had thought he would grow up to be extremely handsome, but during his teenage years his features had become sharper, so that now he resembled Benedikte just as much as Sander. But the overall impression was just fine. He had thick, curly eyebrows, a generous mouth and a nose that could have been better shaped but fitted into the general picture. His hands were big and looked as if they would be good to hold onto. There was something sedate and steady about him. The first impression you got of André was that you could trust him, which was probably quite true.

Unlike Vetle, who didn’t seem quite so trustworthy.

Henning said to André: “I think you should be on your way.”

“Yes, I think so, too,” said Benedikte.

André seemed relieved. He liked the idea of the adventure.

“I suppose you’ll go by train?” asked Henning.

André hesitated. “I ... don’t know. You see, I’ve saved some money ...”

His mother understood what he meant. “An automobile ... a car?”

“They’re awfully expensive,” André said hurriedly.

Henning and Benedikte looked at each other.

“Can you drive properly?” Henning asked. “Cars go fast, you know. At many kilometres an hour, they say.”

“I’ve tried driving Christoffer’s car,” said André. “It’s no problem. Perhaps I could ask for permission to borrow that one?”

“No, I don’t think so,” replied Henning. “Christoffer needs it himself, and cars aren’t toys. I believe I can spare some money and your mother might also have some put by. Isn’t that right, Benedikte? Should we let the boy have his way?”

“We’d better talk it over with his father first,” said Benedikte. “But Sander is extremely fond of cars so ...”

André looked from one to the other. He smiled from ear to ear.

André drove through Sør-Trøndelag in his new car. When he had set off, it had been polished and smart. Now you could hardly see the colour and it creaked worse than an old church organ. Twice on the journey, it had ground to a halt because it had run out of petrol – it was too far between petrol stations – and he had had to push it or walk several kilometres.

Now he was getting closer to his objective.

The car, as André preferred to call it in the modern way, was a Ford Model T, straight from the factory. It was tall and black, open but with a roof over the driver’s seat. Inside, it had leather upholstery, well-padded and elegant, and it had light pneumatic tyres and a horn, which André used quite a lot, especially if young girls were crossing the street ...