‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Una said, trying to laugh. ‘I think stories like that get blown up over time, the more people repeat them. I expect details get added with every retelling.’
‘No doubt, but there’s so much in this world that we don’t understand. I’m sorry not to have mentioned it before you arrived, but it’s the only free room in my house. If you want to leave – to move out, I mean – maybe we could see if there’s anywhere else available in the village. I suppose there might be a room at Hjördís’s place …’
‘God, no!’ Una intervened hastily. ‘I’ll just put up with it. At least I won’t be lonely up there. She’s never harmed anyone, has she?’
‘Who, Hjördís?’ Salka asked.
‘No, the little girl.’
‘Oh, right, of course. Sorry. I was thinking about Hjördís and wondering what happened with that man who knocked on our door. Whether she gave him a room for the night.’
‘It seemed a bit weird,’ Una commented. ‘His story about sightseeing, at this time of year.’
‘Yes, to put it mildly. Like I said earlier, we just don’t get tourists out here in winter. Only the rare Icelander in summer, come to see the ruins.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Una replied, and was about to add that Thór had taken her up there and shown her round but then suddenly changed her mind, reluctant to draw attention to the fact she had gone to see him. ‘I’ve read about it,’ she said instead.
‘First there were some British soldiers here, then the Americans took over. They called it Camp Greely. Apparently, they stayed here right to the end of the war. The army built the road up here and a radar station to monitor air traffic. I gather they were going to construct an air strip here too but then the war ended. Still, imagine how great it would have been to have an airport in our back yard. Perhaps there would be a few more people living here now if we had. There were army huts up on the hill, though they’ve all long since vanished, but you can still see the layout of the roads in the camp, or what remains of them – tarmac too. What a luxury.’
‘Should we, er, maybe ring Hjördís and check?’ Una asked, cutting short Salka’s description. She was motivated more by curiosity than concern for Hjördís, and would have liked to go over and see for herself. She had an ulterior motive too, as it would give her an excuse to say hello to Thór, since she never ran into him in the village. But if, as she’d been assured, the Christmas carol concert was an event nobody missed, he was bound to show his face there. Una was determined to seize the chance to talk to him then and see if it led to anything.
‘No, I don’t think it would be a good idea to ring now,’ Salka said. ‘We’ll see her tomorrow and hear the whole story then.’
‘Yes, I assume she’ll come along to church,’ Una said, then added, unable to resist the temptation of saying his name: ‘With Thór.’
Salka nodded, her thoughts obviously elsewhere. ‘You asked about the girl upstairs,’ she said eventually. ‘No, she’s never harmed anyone. So you needn’t worry about that.’
‘Have you seen her yourself?’
Salka smiled. ‘Only in a picture.’
‘A picture? What do you mean?’
‘There’s a photo of her. It’s not dated but was probably taken the year she died. Would you like to see it?’
Una answered without stopping to think: ‘Definitely.’ Then immediately regretted it. It might be better not to give her imagination too much material to work with.
Salka got up and walked unhurriedly to the bookcase. Una admired the size of her library once again. There had been nothing like it in her own childhood home. Her parents had shown no interest in literature or culture of any kind, and the only books in the house had been on a shelf in her father’s study. She remembered the room so well that when she closed her eyes she could still picture it in detail: the black office chair, the worn desk made of dark wood, the old radio set on which she used to listen to pop music from the American naval base at Keflavík. She used to shut herself in the study and turn on the radio, careful to keep the volume low. The soft lighting lent the room an air of enchantment and the black leather chair was so comfortable that Una used to sink into it and close her eyes, vanishing into a world of foreign music. The only illumination in the room had come from an old, green desk lamp that her father had been given by his father. In her memory, it had given the study a greenish glow. That’s how it had looked the last time Una had seen it and that’s how it would always remain in her memory, which was why there was no colour she now loathed more than green. None of her clothes were green and she had even gone so far as to throw away the only green jumper she had owned, unable to bear the thought of wearing it again.
‘Here’s the book,’ Salka said casually, and Una snapped back to the present. ‘And the photo. It’s been kept in this book, always in the same place, for so many years that I hardly dare move it.’ She opened the book, laid it on a side table and carefully picked up the photo, then came over to the dining table, where she handed it to Una.
The picture was clearly very old, worn and yellowing, dog-eared at the edges. There was the house – the photo had been taken from the road outside – and you could even see the light on in the window of the dining room, where they were sitting now. Upstairs, the dormer windows showed that the attic was there, just the same; in fact, the house didn’t look as if it had changed at all in the intervening half-century. And there she was, the girl, standing on the steps up to the front door, wearing a dress that was white or at any rate a pale colour – it was impossible to tell since the picture was in black and white. She had pale hair and was staring straight into the camera lens, as if she were looking straight at Una and Salka.
Was this the girl she’d seen in her dream the other night? Even as she thought it, she smiled at her own foolishness.
The photograph was so old and the quality so poor that it was easy to imagine anything you liked. A faded image of a girl in a white dress. It was so indistinct that it could just as well be a picture of Edda.
And, quite apart from that, it had been a dream, that was all.
Nothing but a dream.
XIX
The old church was aglow with candles when Una walked in out of the cold.
This year, the last Sunday before Christmas fell on 22 December, only two days before Christmas Eve, which was the high point of the Icelandic celebrations. It was freezing hard outside – the mercury had plummeted without warning – and the weather was still and clear, the stars shining bright overhead. From outside, the church had looked wonderfully atmospheric, and the radiance of the candles streaming from the small windows reminded Una of an old Christmas decoration her mother had once owned – a simple white church with a light bulb inside to illuminate it during Advent. When Una was young, she had thought it a magical addition to their sitting room and every year she had looked forward to the moment when the church was brought out of the garage, where it was kept on a shelf in a battered box. Once the bulb had been tested, the family would gather for the ceremonial switching on of the light. The reminiscence had been enhanced by the passing of time, the glow no doubt brighter in memory than it had been in reality. Una hadn’t seen the Christmas church for many years and didn’t even know if her mother still kept it or had thrown it out. And she didn’t care either. Christmas had bad associations for her nowadays.
It was quite hot inside the church, thanks to all the candles. There were too many to count, rows of them flickering on all the windowsills and other available surfaces, evidence of Gudrún’s handiwork. She herself was standing by the altarpiece, looking very done up in a red dress. She came to meet Una, beaming from ear to ear.
‘What do you think?’ Her face shone with pride. Giving Una no time to answer, she went on: ‘I’ve been baking as well. All the cakes are ready and waiting round the back. Did you bring anything?’
‘It’s … It’s great,’ Una said, lost for a better word. In fact, it was dazzling, lending the church an air
of enchantment, as if conjuring up the spirit of Christmas. Una took off her coat and hung it up in the porch. ‘So pretty and welcoming. You should have called me. I could have helped. And, no, I’m afraid I didn’t bring any cakes. Was I supposed to?’
‘Oh no. I usually take care of that side of things myself. I just thought you might bring something as it was your job to organize the event, but of course it doesn’t matter. It’s just nice that you’re here.’ Again Gudrún smiled.
‘Thanks for all your help,’ Una said, insincerely. The warnings she had been given about Gudrún’s tendency to muscle in and take over had been no lie, but, after all, why shouldn’t she? Una had tried to do her bit, making feeble attempts to help Gudrún take the girls for singing practice, but teaching music had never been her forte. To be fair, though, she had quite enjoyed the rehearsals, which had mostly taken place during school hours. Edda was musical and might have a future as a singer, if she had access to better training than she would get here in the village. True, Kolbrún’s voice wasn’t as powerful. While her singing wasn’t exactly false, it was obvious that music wasn’t her strength and that she wasn’t throwing herself into it, heart and soul. It didn’t really matter, though; the important thing was to take part, and there was no doubt the girls would look lovely. They had been encouraged to wear matching white dresses and Una was sure the audience couldn’t help but be moved by the pure, childish voices singing in this gorgeously festive setting.
‘Wouldn’t you like to cast your eye over the refreshments?’ Gudrún asked. ‘Of course, it’s your concert, so do let me know if you feel something’s missing and we’ll try to sort it out – if possible.’ She glanced at her elegant gold wristwatch, then shook her head. It was half past five, far too late to sort out any deficiencies now, given that the concert was supposed to begin at six.
Una followed Gudrún into the back room, where a table had been laid with all kinds of goodies, including a bowl of the cinnamon doughnut twists known as kleinur, a Swiss roll, pancakes, chocolate coconut balls, and finally a plate bearing a pile of laufabraud or leaf-bread, the delicate deep-fried wafers decorated with cut-out patterns without which an Icelandic Christmas would be incomplete. The effect was mouth-watering. There were drinks too: malt-brew, orange and Coke – nothing alcoholic. ‘I’ll put the coffee on later,’ Gudrún said. ‘You do think it’ll be a success, don’t you, Una dear?’
‘I’m sure it will. You’ve put in a huge amount of work.’
‘Oh, well, one has to fill one’s time somehow. The shop’s not exactly busy and Gunnar’s always working, so this is my favourite time of the year – the concert most of all. It’s all so lovely and Christmassy. Even the darkness seems cosy somehow, though it’s so unrelenting here in winter, as you’ll have noticed, because they never got round to installing streetlights and I don’t suppose they ever will now. It’s just a pity we don’t get more snow. We have to put up with all the dreariness of winter without any snow to brighten things up.’ She sighed. ‘But you get used to it. You can get used to anything.’
‘Are you two planning to stay on here?’ Una asked. She hadn’t meant to pry but suddenly felt a little sorry for the woman. It struck her that Gudrún wasn’t as happy as she pretended to be.
‘Oh, yes, there’s no point moving. No point giving up now. It won’t be long before Gunnar retires, and we’ve made ourselves so … so comfortable out here in the middle of nowhere. One can get used to anything in the end.’ Yet there was a hint of sadness in her eyes as she repeated this mantra. ‘Besides, I don’t know who would organize the concert if I moved away.’
At that moment they heard a creak as the church door opened. ‘Gunna dear?’ called a voice.
‘I’m back here, Gunnar.’
Gunnar was togged up in what was obviously his Sunday best: a grey suit, slightly too tight, a blue-checked shirt and a broad, stripy tie. He was visibly ill at ease in this get-up, clearly missing his usual overalls.
‘How pretty you’ve made it, dear … both of you, I mean,’ he said. ‘Hello, Una. Nice to see you. You must both have worked very hard. The whole village is looking forward to it, from what I hear.’
‘Is everybody coming?’ Una asked.
‘Oh, yes, I think so,’ Gudrún cut in. ‘No one’s ever missed it, as far as I can remember. People generally make the effort to come along, even if they’re on their last legs.’
‘Now you’re exaggerating, dear,’ Gunnar said. ‘But it’s a popular event. There’s not much in the way of entertainment in Skálar. It was better when the army was here. Did I tell you about the film shows they used to hold up at Melar?’ He was looking at Una eagerly, clearly longing to tell her again.
‘Yes, you told me. It’s a great story.’
‘That was the life, Una, in those days. There were four of us boys here, me and Guffi, and our two mates, who’ve left now. Four best friends. Blood brothers, you could say. We used to look out for each other. That’s why it’s never entered my head to work for anyone but Guffi. The bonds you make in your youth never break. Though I expect you know all about that yourself.’
She didn’t, in fact, though she wished she had friends she was that close to. Perhaps life was different nowadays and it was harder to form such close bonds in the city. She hadn’t exactly had a conventional upbringing either, for much of her childhood. None of these factors had helped. And perhaps she just wasn’t very sociable by nature, in spite of having chosen to become a teacher.
Making her excuses, Una left Gudrún and Gunnar in the back room and took a seat in the front pew of the church. She hadn’t needed to turn up this early since she had no particular task to perform. The couple carried on talking, the sound of their voices carrying into the nave, but Una tried to ignore it and savour the temporary respite of sitting there with nobody bothering her, enjoying the warmth of the candles. She raised her eyes to the altarpiece. Salka had described it as really special, saying it looked as though Christ was reaching out of the frame to embrace his congregation. It was certainly large, featuring a carefully executed oil painting of the Saviour against a wider background, but to Una’s eyes it was no more than a pretty picture. It didn’t speak to her in the way Salka had mentioned.
Closing her eyes, Una let her mind drift. She wanted a moment to compose herself before everyone arrived. She had been a little apprehensive, unsure if she would enjoy the evening, acutely conscious of feeling that she didn’t belong among these people. But now she was determined not only to put a brave face on things but to have fun. She found herself wondering yet again if Thór would show up.
She jumped at the sound of the church door opening. She must have nodded off, though for how long she didn’t know.
Turning her head, she saw Inga and Kolbeinn advancing up the aisle with Kolbrún drooping in tow. The girl looked as if she would rather have been anywhere else. She had on a black anorak over her white dress and wore a sulky expression. Kolbeinn shot a glance at Una, his face blank, as if he were seeing her for the first time. Their eyes met briefly, then he looked away and made some remark to his daughter. At the same moment Inga sent what could only be described as a venomous glare in Una’s direction. Did she know her husband had tried to hit on her? Or did she suspect he had? If so, surely she should be angry with him, not Una?
Una averted her eyes and remained where she was, concentrating on the altarpiece, hoping the family wouldn’t sit near her. Her wish was granted. When she eventually stole a glance over her shoulder, she saw that they had taken a seat in a pew two rows behind, as if deliberately avoiding her. ‘Hello,’ she heard Gudrún saying, ‘how nice to see you. Kolbrún dear, are you all set?’
Una didn’t catch the answer. No doubt the girl had just nodded, as uncommunicative as ever.
Peering round again, she saw that Gunnar had now emerged as well and was talking to Kolbeinn, while Gudrún was chatting to Inga. The conversations flowed together in a pleasant background murmur of voices and Una was struck once ag
ain by the melancholy thought that she didn’t belong here. Everybody knew everybody else. Even Salka, who had only moved to the village relatively recently, had deep roots here. Una felt keenly aware of her position as the only real outsider, apart from Thór.
Again the church door opened. She heard from the greetings that Hjördís and Thór had arrived. Her heart beating a little faster, she curbed an impulse to look over her shoulder and kept her eyes lowered, trying to be unobtrusive.
‘Hi, Una, sitting all alone?’ Thór asked, and suddenly there he was, right next to her, smiling his shy smile. Next minute he was sliding into the pew beside her. ‘It’s … er, it’s looking great. This must have taken a lot of organization.’
She hesitated, then said: ‘Well, Gudrún and I did it together. She’s had practice, so everything’s gone very smoothly.’
‘Are the girls as good as ever? I remember they did a lovely job last year.’
‘Very good. They’re both really promising kids.’
Hjördís joined them before Una could say anything else. ‘Hello, I’ll sit with you two. Best to be at the front.’ She took a seat beside Thór. ‘It all looks very festive, like every year.’ They were both neatly dressed in clean clothes, though not in their party gear like Gunnar and Gudrún.
Una smiled. ‘Yes, I gather it’s the biggest event in Skálar’s social calendar.’ Then, realizing that her remark might come across as condescending, though she hadn’t meant it that way, she said: ‘I mean, a lot of effort has gone into it.’
Hjördís’s rather hard face softened slightly. ‘It’s nice to see the church used, even if the vicar doesn’t bother to show his face here that often.’
‘Listen, while I remember,’ Una said, ‘some man knocked on our door yesterday. Salka gave him directions to your place. Who was he? Is he staying with you?’
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