diggers have some kind of new technology that allows the builders to work around the roots. It’s impressive. They keep well away from the old site, where the river-infused earth gave way so easily, and from the resurrected river, which has returned to a triumphant zigzag down the hill through the trees and over the lip of the cliff.
Tom stands with a hand in his pocket, the other holding a cup of tea, as the diggers scoop up black clods of earth and dump it to one side. In an hour they’ve already dug a clean trench fifteen feet deep.
“Good day,” a voice says.
He turns to find Erik standing there. He swallows hard. “Erik,” he says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re here. I thought you’d be at home.”
Erik cocks his head, gives a small, modest smile that says, My job is here. This is what Tom admires about Norwegians—they’re made of the toughest human material. Built to endure both hard weather and hard times with grace. Even Dag has surprised Tom with his resilience. That blow he took should have knocked his head clean off his shoulders, or left him with horrific brain damage. One doctor said he should be a vegetable. Yet he’s recovering at home, sending cocky text messages and photos of his house plans. The one he’ll build for himself once he’s well. Tom has promised he’ll do all the drilling. It’s even become a bit of banter.
“I see things have moved on a little since . . .” Erik says, looking over at the diggers.
“You might say I had a chance to rethink my methods,” Tom says, following this up with an awkward laugh. Too soon, he thinks. He clears his throat and shifts his feet. “I see Dag’s doing a lot better. His text messages say that, anyway.”
Erik nods. “The doctors say he will not be able to go back to university this year.”
Tom feels shame sweep across him once more. “That’s . . . I’m so sorry. Perhaps . . . once Dag feels able to return, I’ll happily pay for the rest of his tuition.”
Erik shrugs. “We’re in Norway. University is free.”
“Right,” Tom says, and Erik laughs. Tom joins him. The relief is immense. It’s only laughter and yet it feels like winning the lottery. It signifies forgiveness. Erik slaps him on the back.
“Come on,” he says. “We have work to do.”
Over the next week, he works harder than he’s ever worked in his life. His presence on-site wearing a number of hats, at least figuratively—architect, project manager, foreman, runner, concrete mixer, machinery operator—galvanizes his small team of workers. It becomes more of a team effort than ever, and he notices some of the men staying on long after their shift ends. Even Jakob, Dag’s friend from Ålesund, shows up, ostensibly to take pictures of the build to send to Dag, but before long he’s in a high-vis jacket and hard hat and is helping Erik heft joists down the cliff.
“Cup of tea?”
Tom looks up from the room in the cliff to see Clive standing on the hoist, holding out a flask.
He continues hammering. “Thought you’d gone back to London.”
Clive steps inside, looks around. Aurelia’s Nest is looking good. Quite spacious, too. They’re in the natural rut of the cliff in which Tom has built a large open-plan living space and kitchen out of wood. Even the floor is down, and the frame for the next couple of stories is in place. He can see iron rods poking through the ceiling from where Dag drilled down. Poor kid. Good job he’s not suing the company. Tom’s a genius to lay on the pally-pal act, keep him sweet. Harder to sue friends.
“London?” he says, setting the flask on the floor. “Hardly. We’re in the thick of things, aren’t we?”
“Hello, boys,” a voice calls. Derry. Tom looks up to see her climb out of the hoist, iPad in hand and black-framed glasses on. She’s not wearing workout gear, either—jeans, Uggs, a white cashmere jumper beneath an unzipped padded coat. Her long dark hair is loose beneath the white hard hat. She’s in interior designer mode. “Good gracious. This is incredible,” she says, ignoring Tom and looking around. “Wowzers. The size of it. You’d never have thought it was this big, would you?”
“Certainly not as deep,” Clive agrees. “We’ve made good progress, haven’t we, babe?”
“We?” Tom says, his smile not quite concealing the bitterness in his voice. All week he has toiled and slaved