He sorts ingredients in zip lock bags, putting on what he clearly thinks is a good American accent and pretending to present a cookery segment on a TV show. Looking up at me in mock earnestness, he says, ‘First we add themuikkuto the seasoned flour.’
That’s when I realisemuikkuare tiny silver fish, like whitebait.
‘I prepared these at home earlier,’ Stellan’s saying confidently.
‘You did?’
‘Well, Rasmus did. Hey, is this your show, or mine? No heckling from the audience please. Then you shake the bag. Heat a little oil and butter in the pan and,whoa!’ Stellan jumps as the pan sizzles, splattering hot oil. ‘Always be careful not to get snow in your oil,’ he says with a lopsided grin.
After a few moments, during which Stellan wryly declines my offers of assistance, I smell the glorious aroma of warming garlic on the impossibly clean air and the savoury scent of the floury fish hitting the oil. My stomach somersaults in response. Stellan shakes the pan, the fish are already turning crisp, and we both fall contentedly silent.
He comes to join me on my gleaming icy throne inside the waterfall where we eat our meal straight from the hot pan, each of us taking turns to make stabs at themuikkuwith our forks. One for me; one for him, until every morsel is gone.
There isn’t a sound or movement anywhere in the forest; no breeze, no birdsong, not a snowflake falling, and the sky is turning a wonderful blush pink as the watery sun makes its way below the horizon again. This, I think to myself, is Stellan’s world; healthful, outdoorsy, elemental.
I suddenly feel overwhelmed with gratitude for whatever force it was that reunited us and let me share this moment with him. And I don’t mind that it will soon pass. All that matters right now is me and Stellan sitting beneath the waterfall.
After our lunch by the frozen falls, and after Stellan has shouldered the heavy backpack again, I find myself unexpectedly dismayed that he isn’t leading me back the way we came towards the truck. Instead, we follow a steep and thickly snowdrifted route between the trees in the opposite direction.
‘A hike?’ I say, my heart sinking. I’d been enjoying the satisfied, pleasantly well fed feeling and thinking I’d soon be back on the road in the comfort of Stellan’s passenger seat, heading onwards to the next part of his whirlwind mystery tour, but now we’re going to slog uphill in waist-deep snow?No thanks!
I never was one for a Christmas day walk. Back home, no sooner had the three of us demolished enough roast turkey and sprouts to feed a family of fifteen, than Dad would hustle us into coats and out the front door for the obligatory muddy trudge to the duck pond and back, when all Mum and I wanted to do was flop on the sofa and stuff Quality Street into our faces in front ofMary Poppins.
‘No hike. This is the way to my parents’ lake house,’ says Stellan.
A lake house? Now thatdoessound festive. Ahead of us, far across the open whiteness, I make out a spire with a black cross atop a white church. Stellan and I struggle on through the snow arm and arm towards it, beneath a waning moon so slim it is barely visible.
‘The house is a little beyond the chapel there.’
‘It’s so pretty here. Basically you were raised in a Christmas card?’ I hear his low laugh but I’m concentrating on dragging my snowshoes out of the white powder that’s trying to sink me like quicksand, so I can’t look over to catch the accompanying grin. ‘This area is stunning. Who owns it? Is it your family’s?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘So we’re trespassing?’
‘It belongs to everybody.’
I squint in confusion, and he must notice it, because he explains, ‘It’s called Everyman’s Rights; the freedom to go where you please, and for free. I’ve never understood the rest of the world’s obsession with parcelling off patches of land that are yours by right. I remember seeing grubby yards and overgrown gardens full of trash in Manchester and thinking how strange it was to fence yourself in and keep others out in this way. And there are English gardens and estates you have to pay to walk in. So weird! Maybe it’s because we haveso muchspace here and the population is so sparse, people don’t feel the need to enclose their little worlds and prohibit people’s movement over them.’
Wow!That’s pretty much the most he’s said without stopping since we met up again, and it’s about how crap and hemmed in England is! I feel a flicker of resentment at him for criticising my lovely Manchester, but more than that, I feel sad. I’m sad that he’ll never feel inclined to come to England and visit me. He had his fill of our parochial habits long ago, on a four-month exchange trip that he couldn’t wait to terminate early.
It strikes me, as I walk along, that I’m now breathless and tired, and not just from the exertion of the walk.
‘I do miss the chippy though,’ I hear him saying hurriedly. ‘And the outdoor football games, and the English ale, and the birds in the trees all winter, and that pizza place near halls, and…’
And the girls? Or one girl in particular? Just say it, and all will be forgiven. But he doesn’t.
‘And those things… those… sweet flan things from the bakery. With the coconut on top? You eat them with custard?’
‘Manchester tart? I’ll be sure to mail some over in the New Year, if you send me more of those hazelnut chocolate bars.’
‘Deal!’ He stops suddenly, unlooping his arm from mine to offer me a handshake through thick gloves.
We smile and I begin to forget why I was wounded a moment ago, recalling my resolution to enjoy this fleeting escapade for what it is.
I watch him break his eyes from mine. It seems so causal the way he can do it, when I’d be content just standing here and gazing at him all afternoon.
‘It’s there.’ He’s pointing now to a large white cabin, just visible through the trees to the east of the church. Both buildings sit on the frozen shores of a lake.
