Free In Search of Mary by Bee Rowlatt Page A

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:
    My little cherub was again hiding her face in my bosom. I heard her sweet cooing beat on my heart from the cliffs, and I saw her tiny footsteps on the sands.
    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 enginenoise, 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