She wanted to live today, this minute. Arne's reminiscences and recalls served only to make her awake to one thing: one must be quick! Not quick, to be exact, but not lagging behind either. In the evening in her room mumbling to herself she counted years finding out that she was by seven years younger than Arne's wife. Here she was at the head of the field, too big an advantage by half to be lost by tarrying.

All and sundry told her all kinds of strange things, but actually she was a small simple woman who wanted to live and love. Must she be forever trapped in someone's imagination as a magnificent calla lily, a flower one's not allowed to touch?

What would be the good of it? One more bottled-up, aloof person.

Who for? What for? Why?

Maybe this is the best she would be capable of?

The best, the truest.

A miraculous morning, sun and air! The starlings have been here for a long time and are whistling outside her window. Maybe even swans ...

The best she would be capable of. Indeed.

But what part is there for Arne? Will she as much as mention him her plans? It would be very strange not to, considering the way they trust each other. But if he knows, will it bring him obligations, tie him down? But what obligations will Arne have, it's Inger's plan from A to Z, her will. She won't make him face the choice: here one, there two, never that. Anything like that played no part in her plans. She will manage the bringing-up part all right.

I wonder how would Arne feel if we had a child? Yet, the man can't be left out. If she were walking about with a pram, in the street, in the park–how would Arne feel then, what would his reaction be? Would he drive past or would he stop?

Arne said he was frightened of her. Did he love Inger at all or was he, perhaps, only frightened?

There were times when Inger wasn't certain of her own love either and had to convince herself that nothing had changed. I love you. Secretly, so what?

What did it denote–secretly? So that it wouldn't be common knowledge, behind closed doors, hidden from her colleagues and town-dwellers, like a spy in the enemy's country, windows closed, stealthily, in a whisper, hardly above the breath; meeting in the street they were perfect strangers, mute and listless, only in the state-owned truck, out of town, in the dark, out of view and earshot like conspirators, were they their rightful selves. So that nobody knew, so that they wouldn't give food for gossip liable to disturb peace in Arne's house and home, to affect his wife's peace of mind, her health. For his wife was ill as Arne professed, and they had to go easy on her, they, healthy and strong.

And yet it was their pigeon.

If she ever asked the man in anger, in anguish: why, oh why did I have to meet you, she'd be lying through her teeth. She wouldn't do this, even if it were painful, tearing her to pieces, she'd clench her teeth, be poker-faced, indrawn, but she wouldn't regret. She wouldn't have anything to regret, not a single thing, for she hadn't done anything regrettable, such a thing would be beyond her, she has only loved.

Ten years, fifteen.

What would Arne reply if she dared to take that issue up again?

Again they were driving along a woodland road.

Inger was at the wheel, the truck careered crazily from side to side like a man in his cups.

"Don't jerk the steering wheel like that. Keep the truck on the right side of the road."

On the empty sandy road the truck turned to the right. "Keep her straight! To the left!"

To Inger's mind she was turning to the left, but a tree, a huge, thick pine at the edge of the road kept coming nearer. Arne caught hold of the steering wheel and drew the truck straight.

"Why did you draw her still more to the right?"

"I don't know ... I've still got the feeling that we're in a boat. The tiller should be turned in the opposite direction," Inger explained.

"Try to keep in mind that you're in a truck," said Arne and Inger was puzzled at the man's tone, it sounded deliberately held in check, constrained.

Inger tried to be more assiduous. She was so busy with steering and watching the road that she didn't have a breathing space to talk.

"Take over now, will you?" she begged at last.

"Where shall we go?"

"To the lighthouse. You promised to show me the lighthouse."

"It's rather late ... But all right." They changed places. The truck responded beautifully when Arne was driving.

But all of a sudden the truck stopped in the middle of the road.

"Hell and damnation!" the man swore.

"What's the matter?"

"The damned headlights!"

Now even Inger took heed of the fact that they were in the darkness, on a cloudy April night, in the middle of an empty road.

Arne jumped out, banged the door shut, lifted the bonnet and poked around. In between he came to search for some tools under the driver's seat and wiped his hands on a piece of matting. Inger had never seen Arne so nettled and knew better than to disturb him.

When he got back into the truck, the headlights came on.

"Could have easily sat here till morning," Arne remarked more calmly, "and call up the workshop for help. Just what I needed!"

Inger felt she was of absolutely no account. They rode on in silence.

Somehow unexpectedly the wood came to an end. Arne stopped the truck. They were at the lighthouse.

The beams from the lighthouse circled in the sky like upended wings of a windmill, bewitching and eerie. The sea was thundering.

Darkness–light, darkness–light, clear-cut beams, six rays. The bright fans of light cut into the black night and penetrated people. The lighthouse instilled in Inger a strange feeling of unease as if time had been in fact projected on one plane.

She took hold of Arne's hand. "You've something on your mind, you are not yourself today."

"I have. I can't work out how to break it."

"Tell me."

"You'll dump me."

Nothing more was said by the man.

Some vague fear kicked in the pit of Inger's stomach. "It isn't this, is it?"

"This what?"

"Remember, I told you there was only one thing that could give me pain."

"No."

Inger felt a bit more reassured.

"Then speak out. Everything else can be lived down."

The man hesitated.

"Some other time," he said at last.

It was a glass-clear day, camomile was in bloom at the edge of the path, and there were daisies in the grass right round the well. There were lots of flowers and Inger was barefooted. Arne was working the pump handle, water was gushing into the pails and he laughed, his white teeth gleaming, then, a pail in both his hands, he began to walk beside Inger. Just then a little boy ran tip to them and, holding up a green tin toy-truck, said, "Daddy, fix it!" There was nothing else, the dream became muddled, she could only feel how the heavy pails on the yoke bore down on her shoulders and saw that she was all alone.

The sun was shining, the day was warm. Inger stood amid boulders and junipers and looked at the sea glistening bright blue between the pines. Offshore, between huge boulders three swans were floating about. The southern slope of the hillock was blue with liverworts.

But Inger was still haunted by the dream. She looked at her watch–soon Arne was to come. Roll on! The man's vague hints had given rise to a strange, gnawing disquiet in her breast.

Inger stooped and picked a couple of flowers. Liverworts with their soft downy hairs like the eyes of the springtime earth–strange they're growing here at all, between pines.

"Inger!" she heard from behind and saw in the distance Aet, who had been stooping, straighten her back and come towards her, the skirts of her spring coat flapping, her round face wreathed in friendly smiles. They both were a little sheepish, not having expected to meet the other here. After Aet had refused to see Inger at the hospital, they had come across each other very seldom, had only now and then exchanged a few words at school.

"How goes the world with you?" Inger asked.

"I've become an entirely new person now," replied Act, demure as ever. "I no longer bother anyone with my troubles and complexes. I live very quietly now, teach school and at home I knit, it has a most calming effect."

"You look great."

Act looked down at the liverworts in her hand.

"Don't I just. Why shouldn't I when I'm perfectly well now. I was almost a nervous case, but they cured me at the hospital and now I manage to contain myself. I feel I've never been this sound. I've fully come to terms with my life and don't strive for something I can't attain, I don't create illusions about anybody and don't take to anybody either, I'm quite mollified. It's the best way to come to grips with life. I simply exist biologically and that's all there is to it." Aet sat down on a mossy stone and looked out to the blue spring scene, resuming languidly, absently, "By the way, this illness taught me to look at people from an entirely new aspect. Yes, when you're in need, you'll learn immediately who's who. He visited me every day, brought flowers and was very considerate. When it was visiting time, he was always the first to come, was already waiting outside the door and bang on two o'clock when they opened the door, he marched in. All the other women in the ward sang his praises, saying I had such a super, thoughtful husband. You know, Inger, actually he's a very private person, too."

Inger stood beside the stone and from time to time cast uneasy glances towards the road. Aet didn't miss it.

"Are you expecting somebody?"

Inger shook her head.

"You're kind of restless, as if you had something on your mind. Has somebody been unkind?"

"Why? Who can be unkind to me?"

Continued in Part XXX...