He Said/She Said(48)

I lean on the port deck of the Princess Celeste and look out over Tórshavn harbour, fighting the kind of hangover I haven’t known since I was a student. The smell of fish on the breeze turns my stomach. I’m in my pyjama trousers under my orange coat and my feet in my boots are bare. I haven’t brushed my teeth, washed my face or turned on my phone since last night. Richard has gone to get me a kill-or-cure coffee. The air here is so clean it feels like you drink it rather than breathe it, and I need every cubic inch of oxygen I can get to blast away last night.

Our ship casts a shadow that reaches right across the bay. From here you can take in the whole town, clustered on the water’s edge, the surrounding mountains rolling into the vanishing point. The basalt cliffs erupt from the sea like the volcanoes they once were. Red-painted houses dot the grey townscape. They look like Lego, and the crowds that line the streets, in primary-coloured walking clothes, seem to have escaped from a toybox. We’ve got a day to kill before the eclipse and nothing booked until this afternoon, when we’ll take a minibus up into the mountains. The thought of it summons bile to my throat.

I haven’t got the energy to find my way to the breakfast room, let alone go hunting for the stone-clad bar.

‘I want to go back to bed,’ I tell Richard when he arrives, my caffeinated elixir of life hot and bitter in a styrofoam cup.

‘No chance,’ he says. ‘We’re going exploring.’

The coffee hits the spot. In the cabin’s cramped en-suite, I brush my teeth, shower, dress and feel almost human. Only then do I check my phone. There’s a welcome message from F?roya Tele, wishing me a happy stay on the islands, followed by some unsettling texts and then three missed calls from Laura.



I’m awake now. I reply. Heavy night. Glad you’re ok tho. Call you later. Xxx



I leave it behind; I’ll catch up with her later. Richard and I fill our wallets with smooth new ten-krónur notes and hit downtown Tórshavn. On the streets, entrepreneurial locals are peddling the usual novelty tat: T-shirts, baseball caps and viewing goggles. I buy the lot, in duplicate this time, so my children won’t have to fight over who gets what; I am determined that, unlike me and Mac, they will both be eclipse chasers. Our Faroese jumpers are on sale everywhere and I’m not sure Richard and I look as cool as I thought we did. Every shop and café is full to bursting.

Richard has bought a paper map. ‘These wooden warehouses used to belong to the Danish royal family,’ he says as we get up close to one of the red houses.

‘Let’s get this party started!’

‘All right, sarky bollocks,’ says Richard, then nods to a nearby bar. ‘Hair of the dog?’

We each buy a pint of pale, hoppy lager that’s been brewed specially to commemorate the non-event. Sólarbjór was apparently brewed in complete darkness and under a full moon. It could have been made by elves and pixies under a magic rainbow, I still wouldn’t be able to finish it. I take a couple of sips then push it away. I’m never drinking again.

In the National Museum, there’s an account of the last total eclipse over the Faroes, in 1954. The crowd jostling to read about the eclipse is four deep and it’s not very often you get to see that. Richard reads a quotation from the then state geologist. ‘ “Rain and foggy, impossible to work”,’ he says. ‘Well. At least it’s not raining.’

‘Not yet,’ says a woman in a rain hood. ‘Fifty per cent chance of precipitation tomorrow according to my app.’

I belch coffee into my fist.

‘How you feeling now, mate?’ says Richard.

‘I would say, really profoundly depressed.’

‘At least you’ve seen one before,’ he says, and then dramatically flings his hand across his eyes. ‘Please, oh gods of the weather, don’t make me die a virgin!’

‘Ha.’ I’m warming to him after all.



My phone’s ringing when we get back into the cabin. Laura’s picture fills the screen and there’s a notification in the corner telling me I’ve had, oh hell, sixteen missed calls from her. My hand trembles as I swipe to answer.

‘What’s happened?’ I say.

‘Have you fucking seen yourself on the internet?’ she says shrilly. Acid swirls in my belly. She must have gone through my computer forensically to find my social media accounts. It’s completely out of character, but she’s not herself lately. I should never have left her alone.

‘It’s all under an assumed name.’ I can hear the squeak in my voice. ‘I didn’t even put my face on it, I covered my tracks.’ I absolutely did; my avatar is my Chile ’91 T-shirt, I’ve even disabled the locations on the few pictures I’ve posted. There’s no way she can have—

‘What are you talking about?’ she says. ‘The whole fucking thing is your face, in close-up! You’ve gone and brought her nicely up to date, haven’t you? Making a complete spectacle of yourself on the internet with a fucking rap.’

‘A rap?’ I echo, but the word unlocks a memory. Last night; I mucked around in front of a camera; I – oh God – I made up a rhyme, didn’t I, listing all the eclipses I’d seen. I can’t remember anyone saying it was going on social media; but I can’t remember telling anyone not to share it either. Hello guilt, my old friend.