The Girl Who Died, Ragnar Jonasson [small books to read .TXT] 📗

IX

After this unpleasant encounter, Una took herself to the shop, partly as a distraction, partly because she needed to buy some food. She had tried to go the day before, only to find the Co-op shut.

The woman behind the counter, who looked to be in late middle age, greeted her with a broad smile. ‘Welcome, Una.’ At least there was no need to introduce yourself here. ‘I’m Gunna … Gudrún, that is. It’s nice to meet you.’

‘Yes, hello, you too. I was just going to … to look around.’

‘We stock everything here, pretty much.’ Gudrún gave her another friendly smile. ‘It’s so nice to have young people come to the village. We don’t get much fresh blood here, you know. It’s always the same story: slowly but surely everyone’s moving away. That’s why it was so lovely when Salka moved here with her little girl, and now here you are. I gather we have Salka to thank for that too.’

Una nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose …’

‘Anyway, what can I do for you today?’ Gudrún continued, barely pausing for breath. ‘The freezer’s over there in the corner. You can dig up all sorts of stuff in there. Then there’s fresh fish on the counter …’ She pointed to the right, where there appeared to be a single fillet for sale. ‘As for alcohol …’ She winked at Una. ‘We keep that round the back. Because there’s no ríki closer than Thórshöfn, we have a special licence to sell it.’

Una perked up at this. Thanks to Iceland’s restrictive laws on the sale of alcohol, you could normally only buy drink from a small number of special state-licensed shops called ríki and she had been wondering if she would have to drive all the way to Thórshöfn, or even further afield, every time she wanted to replenish her supplies.

‘Ooh, in that case, I think I’ll have a bottle of red wine,’ she said, although she still had the box she’d brought with her from Reykjavík, just to be on the safe side. ‘What do you recommend?’

‘Well, of course, I don’t touch the stuff myself – my husband and I are strict teetotallers – but people say the French and Italian wines are the best. I’ve got both kinds.’

‘Then I’ll take one of each, please.’

Gudrún vanished round the back and reappeared with two bottles. ‘Next time, you can just go in there and have a look for yourself, because I’m clueless about wine, as you can tell.’

‘Thanks. Could I have two small bottles of Coke too, and a packet of liquorice? Oh, and that fillet of fish as well?’

‘The haddock? Yes, of course. You’re lucky to get the last one. It usually sells up straight away, and if it doesn’t, it goes in the freezer. We’re used to freezing food here, as it’s the only sensible thing to do. And do you know? I can’t tell the difference; it always tastes fine to me.’

Una took out her chequebook and opened it.

‘Oh, sorry, dear. I don’t take cheques.’

‘What? Ah. I … I don’t have any cash on me, I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t you worry. I’ll put it on the tab.’ Gudrún smiled. ‘But there’s something you can do for me in return.’

‘Oh, what’s that?’

‘Pop in for a coffee with me and Gunnar. How about tomorrow? Would three suit you?’

‘Three? Er, yes, that should be fine.’

‘Wonderful, Una dear. I’ll look forward to it.’

X

‘It’s so nice of you to come round and see us.’ Gudrún beamed at Una, then poured her coffee. The cup was genuine Danish seagull china, of the kind Una hadn’t seen for donkey’s years. An elderly aunt of hers in Reykjavík used to have a set. Come to think of it, Gudrún’s sitting room might have been cut out of a magazine from twenty years ago. She and her husband, Gunnar, lived down by the sea in an old wooden house, which was handsome, though not as grand as Guffi’s place.

The floor was covered in a curry-yellow carpet, the sofa upholstered in a rather threadbare scarlet fabric, there was wallpaper on the walls, and the rest of the furniture was clearly antique. Every available surface was cluttered with knick-knacks, most of which seemed to be birds made of wood or china.

From what Salka had told Una, Gunnar was not quite sixty, but the couple both looked at least ten years older, with plump, kindly, slightly careworn faces. Gunnar didn’t look as if he could have many years left as a fisherman. Una’s first thought when she saw him was that he must be starting to think about retirement.

Gudrún offered her milk and sugar, but Una declined both.

‘People usually drink their coffee white with sugar here,’ Gudrún remarked, though in a matter-of-fact rather than critical tone. ‘But of course you city folk do things differently. It must be a big change for you, moving here?’

‘I haven’t had a chance to find out yet,’ Una replied.

Gunnar was still hovering in the background. ‘It’s a good thing for the children to have a proper teacher,’ he said, speaking for the first time. ‘Inga’s taken care of all their schooling up to now. Have you met her? She’s Kolbeinn’s wife.’

‘Yes, but I haven’t managed to have a proper chat with her yet – or with him either. She was, er …’ Una let her words trail off, unwilling to find fault.

Gudrún saved her the trouble: ‘She can be a bit short with people, can Inga. She’s not very approachable, never has been. But they’re good people at heart, and so’s their little girl. Gunnar works with Kolbeinn, you know.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Gunnar said, finally making up his mind to sit down on the sofa, uncomfortably close to Una. ‘We may not fish on a very big scale, but we do make a decent living.’

‘Kolbeinn’s always on about quitting and moving away, though,’ Gudrún chipped in, before he could say anything else. ‘Of course, they’re still relatively young, and they have a child to think of, so it can’t be