Felt by Mark Blagrave

Author:Mark Blagrave
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC008000 FICTION / Family Sagas;FIC080000 FICTION / Multiple Timelines;FIC019000 FICTION / Literary
Publisher: Cormorant Books
Published: 2024-08-06T00:00:00+00:00

The path through the woods at Pagan Point is more beaten down than Penelope remembers, which means the roots of the spruce are more exposed. Twice she catches her toe and is nearly sent sprawling. The third root wins. She lands hard on her knees and palms, suddenly reborn a woodland creature on all fours. If it weren’t for the war, she thinks, I would have ruined a pair of stockings. As it is, she has only scraped her bare knees and maybe smeared the line she has drawn up the backs of her legs. Everyone is doing that these days, to simulate a seam. You use eyebrow pencil. Stockings are impossible to get. If it weren’t for the war, of course, it is unlikely she would be on the path at all. Her fingers stir the blanket of needles, pushing aside a chocolate bar wrapper — Ganong’s Pal-o-Mine, a brand she detests, though she knows that’s disloyal. Maybe even treasonous at this point.

She had better get up. It wouldn’t do for Mr. Nielsen to find her in this position. How ridiculous is it that she doesn’t even know his first name? A wave of something goes through her, not quite shame, can’t be lust. It must be from the fall. Something is knocked out of whack. She gets to her feet, rummages in her bag for a handkerchief to blot at her torn skin. The knees matter less. Her skirt will cover them. It is her palms she is worried about. Whatever way he chooses to greet her will involve her hands. She spits on them to help the handkerchief wipe away the dirt that has mixed with blood. Thora made the handkerchief. It will be ruined. There will be others.

He is waiting for her on the beach.

“I didn’t know what your signals meant.”

“Just as well. I wanted you to stay put actually. It’s quite rough in the woods, and it’s harder to find the path from this end.” She looks back at the obvious opening in the trees, wonders if he will notice.

“I think it is very warm, very satisfactory, the jumper … the sweater,” he says, taking both her hands in his. “I did not know whether you would come.”

Penelope wants to say the same thing. Instead, she bubbles, “Anything to satisfy a customer,” and then instantly regrets the way that might sound.

“You are very kind to a man so far away from home.”

“It must be awful. Knowing your country is occupied, being so far from family.” It is a gamble, she knows. He may have a wife and children that she doesn’t want to know about.

“I am an only child. My parents are both dead.”

Not necessarily a full answer, but she decides it will have to do.

“You said your mother is from Bergen, I think. I can see that in your hair. Your eyes.”

Penelope is used to people in town remarking on her resemblance to Thora. This is different. Her cheeks burn. No resemblance to Thora there; she has never known her mother to blush.

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