A Bridge to the Stars Read Free Page B

Nederström.
    Don't tell him, thought Joel. Don't tell him. . .
    And she doesn't.
    'Is there anybody in the class who knows what a
figurehead is?' she asks.
    Nobody answers, least of all Joel, the only one who
knows.
    Then Otto puts his hand up again.
    'Joel knows,' he said. 'His mum is a figural . . . one of
those things . . . '
    Miss Nederström looks at Joel.
    'Where on earth did you get that from?' she said. 'A
figurehead is a wooden carving attached to the bows of
a ship. Not nowadays, but in the old days when they
had sailing ships. Nobody can have a mum made of
wood.'
    Joel has time to swear that he hates both Miss
Nederström and Otto before the whole class bursts into
cruel laughter.
    'You know a lot about all kinds of unusual things,'
says Miss Nederström, 'but I must say you sometimes
get carried away by your imagination.'
    Joel stares down at his desk lid, feels his face turning
red, and he hates and hates as hard as he can.
    'Joel,' says Miss Nederström. 'Look at me!'
    He slowly raises his head that feels as heavy as a
block of stone,
    'There's nothing wrong with having imagination and
making things up,' she says, 'but you must distinguish
between what is fantasy and what is real. You
remember that time about the water-lilies?'
    The water lilies! Of course he remembers, even
though he's been trying to forget. The outsize water
lilies on Mauritius that his father had once told him
about. As big as the centre circle of the ice-hockey
pitch they create every winter on the flat, sandy space
outside the school by spraying water onto it and
allowing it to freeze – the temperature never rises
above zero, and they can play on it for months.
    One day everybody in the class was asked to talk
about something exciting they'd read about or heard
somebody talking about.
    Joel had told the story of the water lilies on
Mauritius.
    'I don't suppose they are really as big as that,' Miss
Nederström had said when he'd finished his piece.
    He had been silly enough to insist he was right.
    'They are as big as that,' he said. 'Maybe even
bigger.'
    'Who told you that?' asked Miss Nederström.
    'My dad saw them when he was a sailor,' said Joel,
'and he bloody well knows what he's talking about.'
    He didn't know where the swearword had come
from. But Miss Nederström was angry and sent him out
of the classroom.
    After that he'd made up his mind never to say
anything about far-distant lands again in class. How are
they supposed to know what reality looks like? All
they've ever seen is snow and the endless forests.
    He trudges home from school through the snow
flurries. It's started to get dark already even though it's
only early afternoon.
    I'm eleven years old now, he thought. One of these
days I'll be an old man, and eventually I shall die. But
by then I'll be a long way away from here, a long way
away from all this snow and that Otto who can never
keep his mouth shut.
    His nose is running, and he hurries on home.
    He collects a kilo of potatoes from Svenson's, the
grocer's; a pack of butter and a loaf of bread. Svenson,
who's never fully sober and has grease stains on his
jacket, notes the items down in his notebook.
    I go shopping like a bloody mum, he thought angrily.
First I buy the goods on tick, then I boil the potatoes.
I'm like a mother to myself.
    As he passes through the garden gate, hanging
skewwhiff from its hinges, it dawns on him that this
house will never float away down the river. There will
never be a suitable wind. It might have been better to
smash the house up, like his dad had told him they did
to old tubs past their sell-by date.
    He runs up the dark, creaking staircase, opens the
door to their flat and lights a fire in the stove before
he's even started to take his boots off.
    Something has to happen, he thinks. I don't want to
wait any longer.
    While the potatoes are boiling he searches tentatively
through his dad's room for the photograph of his mum,
Jenny. He sifts through books and clothes, and all