Sophie's Run (42 page)

Greetje waved off his praise with an airy disregard. “Oh no, she was looking after herself all by herself,” she exclaimed. “Now then, I think the food’s about ready. We’ve ordered pretty much everything on the menu and it’s going to be a big buffet, so help yourselves.”

Sure enough, at this moment the chef came through with the first load of pizzas. He had abandoned the normal serving-size pizza trays and was presenting huge rectangular trays full of party-size pizzas. A loud “oh” and “ah” went through the room as folks realized that food was arriving. Dan and Rachel joined the fray immediately but Steve and I hung back for a little bit, observing.

“Who are all these people?” Steve wanted to know. There were probably about fifty or so adults and children at the party. “How did you manage to get to know so many people so well in such a short time?”

“I didn’t,” I conceded, trying to identify the folks around us. “I don’t know everybody here, like, personally. Let’s see…” I subtly pointed out individuals as I saw them. “There’s Greetje, obviously, and her husband Klaus… Their two grown-up children and the grandchildren… Folke, the ferry man… Anna from the supermarket… The teachers from the school… The postman… The bank clerk… The pharmacist… Some of ‘my’ children from school and their parents… Oh, and the choir of course…”

I grinned at Steve. “On reflection, I probably do know everybody here.”

“You joined a choir?” Steve asked in surprise.

“Of course! I missed singing. I wasn’t very good at their style of music, but they didn’t mind.”

Greetje bustled toward us, munching a slice of pizza and waving energetically with her free hand. “What are you doing, standing here at the back? You are to eat, and to be merry,” she mock-scolded, dragging me by the arm toward the buffet. Steve followed us, bearing a big smile. He appeared at ease in this environment, he seemed to positively revel in the hustle and bustle. I was glad.

There was a lot of admiration for my purple “plastic” ring which of course I had to show off, and Steve wasted no time dining out on the story of how I mistook his designer gift for a plastic ring. I took the opportunity to have a quick chat with Greetje.

“Thank you for organizing this,” I said humbly. “I can’t believe you’ve all come, and all this food and everything…”

“It’s nothing,” she assured me. “We wanted to celebrate. Besides, I suspect that you’ll be going home to England soon?” She looked a question at me, and I nodded my head reflectively. Yes, I supposed I would.

“So this is a kind of farewell, too.” She beamed. “Everybody has greatly enjoyed meeting you and hearing about your wonderful escapades.”

I cringed, but only slightly. In reality, I had quite enjoyed the good-natured interest that everybody here was taking in everybody else’s life. It meant that people were looked after.

“And lastly, before you get too overwhelmed by it all, it’s only partly for you.” She tried to appease my discomfort at the grand and unexpected celebration of my engagement. “We come quite often together like this in bad storms. It means all people are in a safe place and we can look out for each other and everybody is less scared. There’ll be more people coming soon, Arne is—”

“—
collecting them all,” I laughed. “Yes, he told us. What a wonderful tradition.”

“Isn’t it just? And it distracts the children from the howling and wailing of the storm. Why sit at home, where it may be cold and there’s nothing to do?”

I shook my head in amazement. I would miss this island and its fantastic little community quite a lot when we left. But this wasn’t the time to dwell on departures. Steve had been to the buffet and returned with pizza and wine for both of us, and I tucked in gratefully.

As Greetje predicted, more people arrived over the next hour or so until the restaurant was packed out. Steve and I were duly toasted and celebrated, but the islanders also went about their business of resisting the storm and making merry in the face of adversity. When the rush on the food subsided, we cleared a big space to create an impromptu dance floor and the music cranked up. Adults and children alike were bopping and dancing and singing along; it was quite raucous in a harmless kind of way. The evening was a whirl of colors and food and dance while the ferocious storm outside hit and battered the island. High tide was due at eleven p.m., and if there were going to be waves crashing over the sea defenses, they would be at their worst then. We feigned ignorance and carried on.

By and by, the children drooped and faded and the adults created a big sleep area in one corner, bringing out sleeping bags and blankets. Incredibly, despite the music, the kids went off to sleep, having tired themselves out with wild dancing, running around, and lots of food. We turned the music down a bit but kept it going, and the mood changed, became a little more grown up, more serious. Couples appeared on the dance floor, holding hands, even doing proper rock’n’roll or jive-style steps.

Dan, Steve, Rachel and I were in the middle of showing the islanders the proper circular, arm-round-next-person’s-neck, foot-swinging way of honoring the classic “Come on Eileen” when the power went off. The room was plunged into darkness and silence.

A male voice immediately started issuing calm and precise instructions. I translated for my three friends.

Everybody stay calm.

Stay where you are.

Folke, find the lanterns and light them.

Within a minute or so, he had lit the first storm lantern, and another man joined him to light the others. Soon, twenty or so oil lights were dotted about the room, casting a cheerful and cozy glow entirely belying the natural havoc occurring outside.

The restaurant also had a number of oil heaters which were set on a low heat. More blankets and duvets made an appearance, and soon we were all sitting on the dance floor in a big circle. Greetje had organized left-over food and drink to be brought in the middle alongside a few lanterns, and the effect was one of a midnight campfire picnic.

Now that the music was no longer masking the sounds of the gale-force wind, we could hear the impact of the storm. There was a dull thudding that we assumed would be waves breaking over the defenses further out on the island, and the wind was howling incessantly. It was eerie and surreal and everybody listened in reverent silence for a few minutes. The atmosphere took a distinct dip into gloom and doom.

Suddenly, Greetje piped up, adopting a jittery, brittle old man’s voice and speaking half in German, half in English for our benefit.

“This is nothing,” she cackled. “You should have seen the Great Storm of 1962. For days it raged and the island was flooded, the dykes were breached—”

Klaus nudged her affectionately. “You weren’t even born then, you fraud.”

“I’m being my Granddad,” Greetje informed him in a stage whisper. “He’d launch into this story at every opportunity, even the slightest hint of a breeze.”

“Go on,” Rachel encouraged her unexpectedly. “I’d love to hear the story.”

And so Greetje recounted the story of the Great Storm. She was a great storyteller, and we hung on her every word. The howling of the present storm punctuated her tale and for a while, we felt as though we were living the great disaster of the past. When she finished, she looked around us all, one by one, to milk the atmosphere. Gleefully, she clapped her hands and said in a loud, bright, voice, “See, there’s really nothing to worry about today. The dykes are much higher, the wind isn’t as strong, the weather system isn’t as vicious and anyway, we’ll get through this.”

There was an audible sigh of relief as she lightened the mood. Greetje picked up one of the wine bottles, checked that it was empty, positioned it in the middle of the floor and spun it vigorously. We watched, mesmerized, as it spun itself out, finally coming to a rest pointing at no other than Dan.

“Ha. Your turn to tell a story next,” Greetje pounced. “English is fine, isn’t it?” She regarded her fellow islanders encouragingly and everybody nodded. Dan scratched his head.

“Does it have to be a storm story?” he asked. “Because I haven’t really got one of those.”

“Nah,” Folke chimed in. “Tell us about you.”

“Yes,” Greetje reinforced this notion. Never one to miss an opportunity for drama, she informed the islanders that Dan was “famous, he makes rock music.” There were astounded mutterings among the people until a young woman piped up, “I thought you looked familiar. Oh, this is so exciting.”

Dan flashed her one of his professional smiles, and she nearly swooned, but was swiftly brought in line by an embarrassed husband.

“Yeah, Dan, tell us a rock story,” Rachel challenged with a mischievous smile. Dan scratched his head again and conceded defeat.

“Let’s see. There was this one time when we were just up and coming… We had an album out and it had done quite well and we were touring the country up and down. We didn’t have much money so we used this ancient crappy camper van to take us and our equipment from place to place. One day, we turned up at a venue somewhere and we hadn’t had a chance to sleep or wash or anything between gigs. We must have looked pretty rough. And…” he coughed with embarrassment. “We probably didn’t smell too good, either.”

That admission earned him a laugh.

“Anyway, so we walked in there with our stuff and security threw us straight out. So we were stood outside like idiots. Of course, those were the days before mobile phones so we couldn’t send a text to our manager. I had to go off and find a phone box five minutes down the road and scrabble together some change to ring the venue, put on my poshest scratchy voice and demand to be put through to Jack in the changing room.”

He stopped, teasing us with a break.

I elbowed him in the ribs. “And?” I prompted.

He chuckled. “The money ran through faster than you would believe, and when Jack
finally
came on, the beeps were starting. So all I could say is, ‘come outside, man’ and the connection broke.”

Everybody laughed at Dan’s comical rendering of his own voice and surprised expression.

“It worked, though,” he defended himself. “When I got back to the place, Jack was outside with the rest of the band waiting for me. The best thing about this was the look on the face of the security man when he had to let us through after all.”

There was a round of applause for the story, and it was Dan’s turn to spin the bottle.

All through the stormy night, I sat with my friends new and old, sharing anecdotes, spinning yarns, laughing, joking, and eating. I nestled sleepily into Steve’s arms, feeling content and secure despite the unusual circumstances

“Aw…. Look at the lovebirds,” somebody shouted, and the focus of attention shifted from outrageous tales to my engagement to Steve.

“Have you got a date?” Greetje demanded of us quite abruptly. She had probably been holding that question back for the entire evening.

“Will you keep your nose out of their business?” her husband scolded her lovingly. “For goodness sake, they’ve barely been engaged for a day.”

Greetje looked suitably crestfallen, so I stepped in quickly. “We haven’t really talked about it,” I admitted. “It’s all happened so fast… But…well, I don’t know. Maybe in the spring? What do you think?” I turned to my fiancé.

“Spring’s fine,” he agreed.

“No,” Rachel howled. “That’s not nearly enough time to get everything organized. It takes six months for your dress alone.” She was, of course, speaking from experience.

“Not for mine, it won’t,” I assured her.

“Are you using your Mum’s?” Anna chimed in. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

I cringed. Mum’s wedding dress was all flouncy and full of lacy frills. Besides, it was probably much too small for me.

“Err…. probably not,” I admitted. “But I want something simple and—”

“—
and anyway, there’s always my little sister, she’s a nifty one with a needle and a bit of tulle,” Dan tried to come to the rescue.

Rachel and I jointly flinched at “tulle,” but I appreciated the sentiment. Of course, the islanders had no idea that Dan’s sister was a fashion-guru, but
they
liked the idea of a “homemade” dress.

Conversation reached a bit of a lull after this as tiredness overwhelmed everyone. It was almost three a.m. More sleeping bags were rolled out, blankets spread out and all lanterns bar two were extinguished.

“Good night, sweetheart,” Steve mumbled as we lay snuggled together under a heap of blankets.

“Good night, stubbles,” I whispered back. “I had a good day.”

“Me too,” came the nearly-asleep response, and thus ended our truly one-of-a-kind, once-in-a-lifetime engagement party.

It felt like we were the cast out of a twenty-first century nuclear disaster movie when we gingerly mounted the stairs the following morning to venture outside and inspect the damage. Having been so insulated from the ravages of the storm in our basement refuge, we expected the worst, but things weren’t too bad. Although a brisk wind continued blowing, the force of the storm had relented with the outgoing tide. The sky was grey and it was still raining, but not nearly as heavily as the previous day. The locals were chatting in the street, wearing their trademark yellow sou’westers and wellies, and from snatches of conversation I gathered that the sea defenses had not been breached. There were a few fallen trees and obviously the electricity was still out, but the island had come through relatively unscathed. Greetje and her family were nowhere to be seen; they had left at first light of dawn, such as it was, presumably checking on houses, boats and shops. I resolved to visit the tea shop later, if it was open, to see how things had gone and to thank her again.