The Girl Who Died

by Ragnar Jónasson

  ‘Yes,’ Salka agreed, ‘it’s very quiet here, which is great if that’s what you’re after. If not, I expect it would be a difficult place to live. It suits me, though. I’ve got used to it, but then, I’m the quiet type. An old soul, as they say.’

  ‘What do you do for a living? Sorry, I should probably know, but it didn’t occur to me to ask before.’ Una tried to suppress a yawn, finding it increasingly difficult to fight off her weariness. ‘You’re involved with the school, aren’t you? Didn’t you say you were on the local council?’

  ‘Well, “school” is a bit of an exaggeration; we alternate between holding the classes here at my house and at Kolbrún’s parents’ house. The community’s too small to justify having a separate school building. But yes, I’m on the council. It covers Skálar and the neighbouring district. I’ve been fighting for us to advertise for a proper teacher, someone with teacher training. The others thought it would be fine for us to carry on home-schooling, but I wasn’t happy about that. We have a duty to provide the children with a proper education. They shouldn’t be disadvantaged just because they live out here.’

  ‘Then I suppose I have you to thank for the job.’

  ‘Better wait and see if you want to thank me,’ Salka said with a humorous arch of her eyebrow. ‘Give it a week or two before you decide …’

  ‘OK, you’re on …’ Una took a sip of coffee. ‘By the way, are you sure it’s all right for me to stay here? I can live somewhere else if that would be better; I mean, better for you and your daughter.’

  ‘Oh no, it would be nice to have you here. The public sector pays your rent, which is great for me as it means a bit more money coming in every month. The house is too big for the two of us, but this is the first chance I’ve had to get a lodger. People aren’t exactly queuing up to rent rooms in Skálar, as you can imagine.’

  ‘So how come you and your daughter live here? Did you decide to move to Skálar because you were on the local council?’

  Salka laughed. ‘Not directly, no. I inherited this house from my mother. She grew up here but later moved to Reykjavík and it stood empty for years. It’s such a beautiful house, though, that I decided to try living in it, so I sold up and moved out here with Edda. It’s cost a small fortune to do it up, but I’m getting there, slowly.’ After a moment, she added: ‘As a matter of fact, I’m a writer.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Una said, then immediately regretted it, thinking perhaps she should recognize Salka’s name.

  ‘Yes, it’s three years since my last book, but I’ve got another one coming out fairly soon.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t read much,’ Una confessed, then worried that this might not sound very good coming from a teacher. ‘That is, I don’t read many novels.’

  Salka laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll lend you one of mine, though, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Yes, thanks, that’d be great. Incidentally, what do the locals do? For a living, I mean?’

  ‘Those who aren’t writing books?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Una said. She found herself liking this woman, who evidently didn’t take herself very seriously and was, moreover, an outsider too. Una was grateful that she wouldn’t have to live alone, as she’d been doing that for far too long already. Maybe everything would turn out OK, after all. She must make an effort to think positively.

  ‘There aren’t many of us here, as you’re aware.’

  ‘Only ten people, I gather.’

  Salka nodded. ‘Ten, that’s right. There’s a bit of land above the village where a woman my age is trying to make a go of farming. It’s going OK, from what I hear, but she’s not very sociable, to be honest, so I don’t know her that well. Everyone else is more or less dependent on the sea for their living – on the fishing, that is. The fishery owner with a capital “F”, the big man of the village, lives in the only house that’s nicer than mine.’ She laughed, and Una reflected again that Salka seemed like the cheerful type; a woman who knew how to enjoy life. ‘He’s getting on for sixty and has been running fishing boats here for longer than the oldest folk can remember. Sadly, his wife’s wheelchair bound these days.’

  ‘Is he well liked?’ Una asked.

  ‘You’ll either love Guffi or loathe him. He’s that sort of type. Nothing in between. But he’s very popular here. He’s extremely generous, always doing his bit for our little community. And he’s a devout Christian too and sponsors events at the church. Which reminds me, one of your jobs will be organizing the Christmas concert at the church this year, with the children.’

  ‘What, both of them?’ Una said with a grin.

  Salka chuckled. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I hope there’ll be enough room in the church for the audience …’

  Salka smiled. ‘Joking apart, it’s a lovely old wooden church. You probably noticed it when you arrived. The altarpiece is really special. It’s hard to describe, but it’s like a portrait of Christ and there’s so much depth to the painting; it’s as if he’s there in the church, reaching out from the frame to his flock, enfolding us all in his embrace …’

  ‘Are you religious yourself?’ Una asked, then wished she hadn’t, thinking her question might seem inappropriate.

  Salka didn’t look offended, though. ‘No, not at all, actually. But I can still appreciate a good piece of art, especially when it’s that striking.’

  Una wasn’t much of a churchgoer herself, though she had held on to her childhood beliefs; she’d certainly had great need of faith at times in her life.

  Salka went on: ‘But I warn you, you’re expected to attend church. Almost everyone does, because they don’t want to get on the wrong side of the boss – the fishery owner, I mean. His name’s Gudfinnur, but everyone calls him Guffi.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be a problem for me to go along to services. Is there one every Sunday?’

  ‘Are you kidding? We’re lucky if we can get the vicar out here more than a couple of times a year. He can’t face the journey. The poor man’s getting on, and of course he doesn’t live in the village. But he always holds a Christmas service, if the roads are open, though not on the twenty-fourth. Last year it wasn’t until the twenty-eighth of December, if I remember right.’

  Una was used to going to church at Christmas – it was the only time she ever went – and then always to Midnight Mass on the twenty-fourth, after the family – she and her parents in the old days; now just she, her mother and her stepfather – had eaten their gammon and opened their presents. It sounded as if her Christmas would be very different this year.

  ‘And does the vicar come to the concert I’m supposed to be organizing?’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s just something we put on ourselves. It was properly festive last year. I took care of the music and the girls sang like angels and looked like them too, all dressed in white.’

  ‘Are you a composer then? As well as an author?’

  Una had sometimes wished she could write music or stories or poetry, or play an instrument, but her talents didn’t lie in that direction. Although she had been a good student, she’d never been artistic. Her parents had been very down-to-earth people and her father, in particular, had never had much time for creative types. He had been a doctor who believed in science above all else, wouldn’t stand for any mention of God in his house and used to describe artists as ‘a plague on society’, arguing that people ought to stick to the sciences and try to understand the world as it really was. He didn’t even listen to music, just used to pore over his books all day – and certainly never bothered with fiction. ‘It’s a total waste of your time, reading trash like that,’ he’d said. Una remembered that conversation well, though she’d only been about twelve at the time.

  ‘A composer?’ Salka shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say that, but I’m not bad at several instruments. I play the piano quite well, though I say so myself, and I’ve been practising on the little organ in the church. I accompanied the children last Christmas.’ She paused, then said: ‘Act
ually, I have written a few bits and pieces, just little songs and that sort of thing.’

  Una looked round the room again. It was certainly a cultured home, with all those books and paintings … All it lacked was a piano.

  Salka seemed to read her mind: ‘I’ve got an old upright piano in the dining room, through there …’ She pointed. ‘It belonged to my grandmother. We’re a very musical family. It’s an old Russian instrument – don’t ask me how it ended up here, but it’s still got a lovely sound. Maybe I’ll play something for you one day. My daughter enjoys it too – I’m teaching her to play – and the other girl as well, though I have to say she displays more determination than talent.’ After a brief silence, she continued: ‘It’s quite something, isn’t it? For a tiny hamlet like this to have its own teacher and piano teacher for a class of two. Beat that if you can!’

  Una grinned and nodded. ‘But aren’t I holding you up?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you need to put your daughter to bed?’

  ‘Oh, no, she puts herself to bed. Don’t worry, I like talking. Just say when you’re ready for bed yourself.’

  ‘I’ll stay and finish my coffee then, if that’s OK,’ Una said. Despite being tired, she was grateful for the company.

  ‘I’d like that,’ Salka said warmly.

  ‘You were going to tell me about the other locals. Who else lives here?’

  ‘Oh, yes, so I was. There are two couples; both the men work for Guffi on the boat. I gather they’ve been with him for years. I think they own shares in his fishing business and do quite well out of it. Like I said, he’s generous, I’ll give him that.’

  ‘What sort of age are they?’

  ‘One’s in his late fifties like Guffi. That’s Gunnar. His wife, Gudrún, runs the local Co-op, though it hardly deserves the name. Gunni and Gunna, you know.’ She winked. They were two of the commonest names in Iceland. ‘The Co-op’s next door – the little concrete building. You may have noticed it when you arrived. It’s only a small shop and sometimes the choice is a bit limited but, don’t worry, no one has to go hungry here. Though I suppose it’ll be quite a change for a city girl like you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Yes, one can get used to anything.’

  Una wasn’t so sure about that but didn’t like to argue.

  ‘Then there’s Kolbeinn and Inga, who are younger, both fortyish. They’re the parents of your other pupil, Kolbrún.’ Salka hesitated, then said: ‘Inga’s quite like her daughter, to be honest – not particularly outgoing. She can be a bit gruff with people. Kolbeinn, on the other hand …’ She let the sentence trail off. ‘But they go to church with Guffi, of course.’

  ‘I look forward to meeting this Guffi. What do you think of him?’

  ‘I have a lot of time for him,’ Salka replied. ‘Like I said, his wife, Erika, is in a wheelchair, poor thing. She’s quite a lot older than him too, ten years or so. I don’t see her very often as she doesn’t get out much, but apparently she used to be a librarian in Egilsstadir and that’s where they met, before she moved out here with him. I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with her and don’t like to ask. Perhaps it’s just general fatigue and her age, but presumably the time will come when they’ll have to move to a town where she can have access to better care.’ Again she paused. ‘But since Guffi’s the loudest advocate for keeping the village going, it would be a difficult decision for them. Or for him, at least.’

  Una finished her coffee. ‘Is there a doctor anywhere nearby?’

  ‘No, not here in the village. But there’s a district doctor, of course, who’s supposed to look after us when necessary. He visits from time to time, and people try not to get ill until he’s expected.’ She smiled.

  A silence fell and after a while Salka resumed: ‘Everything revolves around the sea here, Una. There are good fishing grounds just offshore, which is the only reason the village exists. If it weren’t for the fish, I wouldn’t be here writing books and you wouldn’t be here to teach the children. We’re totally dependent on the fish. And the weather – the wretched climate. The men need good conditions to be able to get out to the fishing grounds and home again safely. So here in the village we pray for the fish and the weather, as well as all the usual, everyday things …’ The humorous note had left her voice and she sounded oddly serious. Una found herself wondering apprehensively what she had let herself in for. What would conditions be like in the depths of winter on this remote peninsula, thrust far out into the Arctic Ocean?

  Bitterly cold, she guessed, with howling gales.

  And all-enveloping darkness.

  IV

  ‘So, this is it,’ Salka said, a hint of pride in her voice, once they were upstairs in the flat that was to be Una’s new home.

  Una derived a certain comfort from the fact that Salka seemed so pleased with her house and so at home in the village. Not that Salka was a true incomer, since her family had come from the village, but it certainly sounded as if the locals had welcomed her with open arms. Una hoped she would experience the same warmth herself.

  ‘I described it as the upstairs but, as you can see, it’s really more of an attic. I hope you’re not too disappointed. Sometimes you have to play the role of estate agent and talk things up a bit. But I reckon it’s not bad, though I say so myself.’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s great, really great.’ They were standing in the living area, a combination of sitting room, dining room and kitchen, all rolled into one. The kitchen table stood by a large dormer window.

  ‘You’ve got a good view of the sea from here,’ Salka pointed out, ‘though of course you can’t see anything now, in the fog. I used this kitchen myself for a couple of months when we first moved in, while I was renovating the kitchen downstairs. The fridge is in good condition and so’s the cooker. Maybe we could take it in turns to cook for each other – from time to time, at least. I’m afraid I’m not very good in the kitchen. My daughter far prefers other people’s cooking. I seem to have been born without any talents in that department, but I make up for it by playing the piano …’

  ‘Sounds like a good exchange,’ Una said. ‘I know my way around a kitchen, and I bet you can get lovely fresh fish here?’

  ‘You won’t find better anywhere else. By the way, I stocked up the fridge with milk, cheese and some other bits and pieces for you, and there’s bread in the cupboard.’ Salka gestured to the right: ‘Your bedroom’s through there. It has a fairly large dormer window too, though no view of the sea, I’m afraid. I put clean sheets on the bed, and there’s a washing machine downstairs that you’re welcome to use, of course. There’s a bathroom up here too. It’s a bit dated, and there’s only an old bathtub, but if you’re careful you can have a shower in it. So, all in all, it’s a pretty cosy set-up, I think; old-fashioned but homely.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be happy here. It’s not much smaller than my flat in Reykjavík,’ Una said, and it was true that there wasn’t much difference in size. It was a pity her father hadn’t left more money when he died, as life had always been a bit of a struggle for her and her mother. With his medical training he could have got a very well-paid job, but he would never hear of working in a hospital or GP’s surgery. All he’d wanted was to stay within the university environment, doing research, trying to make the world a better place. He’d had neither the head for money nor any interest in making it.

  ‘Of course, it’s a cultural desert here,’ Salka remarked. ‘I must lend you some books – and maybe a painting too? Or did you bring that kind of thing with you from Reykjavík?’

  ‘No, it didn’t occur to me, so anything of that sort would be gratefully received.’

  ‘There’s a radio over by the sink. You can get Channel One on long wave but the quality’s a bit up and down. You can never rely on the reception here, but the radio has an inbuilt cassette player, as you can see, and I’ve put some tapes in your bedroom, both pop and classical, and there are more downstairs. I mainly use the record player my
self, so you’re welcome to borrow as many tapes as you like.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s very kind. What about a TV?’ Una asked hopefully.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no reception here. I hope that won’t be a problem. They’re always working on it, or so they claim – it’s a constant bone of contention – but nothing ever happens. It’s hard to get them to prioritize such a tiny village, but I suppose it’ll reach us eventually.’

  ‘Oh … What about a video rental?’

  Salka laughed. ‘We’re not in Reykjavík. There’s no video rental here, though some people do have VCRs and their own tapes; Guffi for one, and no doubt some of the others too. You’ll just have to come to an arrangement with them. I don’t even own a television set, let alone a video recorder.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Una had in fact brought her video machine with her, but it hadn’t occurred to her to bring along a TV as well. She’d also grabbed some VHS tapes from the shelf at home, of programmes and films she’d recorded off the television, including the Live Aid concert she and Sara had watched together earlier that summer. She could happily watch that on repeat.

  ‘One can get used to anything,’ Salka repeated. ‘Here are the keys. You can let yourself in and out of the flat by the back door, so you’ve got your own separate entrance, if you want it. Anyway, that’s enough for now. I’ll let you get to bed.’

  V

  Una lay in bed, staring at the darkness outside the window.

  This was her home now; this was where she would be living for the next few months, sleeping in this bed, this room. The thought was rather daunting. Normally, she had no difficulty dropping off, but now she felt wide awake. Of course, she was tired and that was bound to affect her impressions of the place, but the truth was she didn’t feel at ease, either in the village or in this house.

  She had tried reading, but it hadn’t helped and she had soon given up. After that she had lain there for a long time on her side, curled up under the warm duvet with her eyes closed, waiting for the sleep that stubbornly refused to come. She’d brought a box of red wine and several bottles of Campari with her from Reyk-javík, and toyed with the idea of having a nightcap, but resisted the temptation. She wasn’t sure what the locals would think about drinking. This had been a source of worry to her before she came here, as her image of country people was that they had stricter attitudes to alcohol than the citizens of Reykjavík did, and it wouldn’t do her image as the local teacher any good if she was viewed as some kind of alcoholic. But what she did in the privacy of her own home was her affair.