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

easy for them living here, though Gunnar and I are used to it. We’re part of the surroundings, really.’ She smiled.

‘There’s no sense throwing in the towel and leaving,’ Gunnar said, sounding suddenly harsh. ‘What would happen if all the young people left? The village would die – it would completely disappear. That would be a shame, a real shame, for a place with a history like this. I was born and raised here and it’s never crossed my mind to leave – or Gunna’s either. Has it, dear?’

‘I should think not. You just have to put up with things and make the best of them,’ Gudrún agreed. ‘But I have to say, I do understand how they feel – as a young couple.’

Una began to wonder if Gunnar and Gudrún had forgotten she was there.

‘Well, I don’t. But I do know why Kolbeinn’s always harping on about leaving. And you know too, don’t you, Gunna?’

Gudrún nodded. ‘Yes, you’ve told me before.’

‘Yes, I’ve told you, but not Una.’ Gunnar turned to her, so they were nose to nose on the sofa. ‘The fact is, Guffi pays too well; we have it too good, Gunna and I, and Kolbeinn and Inga too. I have no need for all that money; it just goes straight into the bank. But Kolbeinn, he’s always on about moving to Thórshöfn, or even down south to Reykjavík, claiming he has enough capital to set up his own company there.’ Gunnar shook his head. ‘Damn it, I don’t know …’

Una sat on the sofa feeling awkward, unable to understand why they’d invited her round, since neither of them seemed remotely interested in her.

But Gudrún took advantage of the silence following Gunnar’s tirade to say: ‘Una, I gather you’re going to organize the Christmas concert at the church?’

Una nodded, though all she knew about it was what Salka had told her the first evening.

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ Gudrún said with sudden enthusiasm. ‘It’s an important occasion, especially for the children, and always has been. Of course, there used to be more of them in the old days, but that’s the way it goes – everything changes, nothing stays the same. But I think I’m safe in saying that it’s the high point of the Christmas celebrations here in the village. Don’t you agree, Gunnar?’

Gunnar nodded and grunted.

‘We always hold it in the evening. It’s such a beautiful occasion, with the church all lit up by candles in the winter darkness, and everyone coming together. No one’s allowed to sit at home on the last Sunday before Christmas.’

‘Yes, I hear it’s going to land on me this year,’ Una said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I gather it’ll be my responsibility.’

‘How old are you, dear, if you don’t mind my asking?’ Gudrún said. ‘You look so young.’

‘Thirty.’

‘Goodness me, that’s no age at all,’ Gunnar broke in. ‘You’ve never been here before, I take it?’

‘To the village? No, I … well, to be honest, I didn’t even know it existed.’ She added, untruthfully: ‘Though I might have heard of it.’

‘It is a bit isolated,’ Gudrún said, and sighed.

‘A bit isolated? It was good enough for the American army, let me tell you,’ Gunnar exclaimed, becoming agitated, ‘and plenty of people lived here in the old days. It was quite a sizeable town at one time, I think I can safely say, although it was always referred to as Skálar Village.’

‘Gunnar was born and brought up here,’ Gudrún explained, although her husband had already told Una this. ‘He has very strong ties to Skálar. The village grew up early this century when people moved here for the fishing. You’ve probably noticed the ruins of the old jetty? Though, of course, Guffi’s invested in a new, improved one.’

Una nodded. ‘How many people used to live here?’ she asked, regretting that she hadn’t read up on the history of the place beforehand.

Gudrún glanced at her husband. He frowned, then said importantly: ‘Tch, over a hundred people, closer to a hundred and twenty at its height.’

‘Seriously? Over a hundred people?’

‘Believe it or not. And that’s not all; the population used to double in summer with all the migrant fishworkers. It was a place in its own right, you know.’

‘And you mentioned that the American army was here?’ Una asked. It was the first she had heard of it.

‘Yes, that was no joke. First it was the British. I remember them well, though I was only in my teens at the time. They were here for two years. Then the Americans arrived. They built a camp above the village. You can still see the ruins if you walk up the hill.’

Una hadn’t yet explored the higher ground behind Skálar.

After a brief pause, Gunnar went on: ‘They used to call it Camp Greely. There was a whole load of Quonset huts – it was a proper radar station, with a radio mast, a machine-gun nest and I don’t know what else. They used to keep an eye on the air traffic in the area. I remember it so well – it was quite an adventure. Well, it was deadly serious, of course, but for me and my mates it was a real eye-opener. We used to spend as much time as we could hanging around up there, trying to take in the fact that the war had come all the way out to find us, in the remotest corner of the country. I reckon there were nearly fifty soldiers here at one time.’

Una stole a sidelong glance at Gunnar, seeing from the rapt look on his face that he was lost in his reminiscences, as if he’d travelled back forty years in time. Una could hardly imagine it: military barracks on the barren slopes above the village, dozens of armed American soldiers swarming all over the place, in the middle of a world war and yet so far removed from the fighting.

Gunnar hadn’t finished: ‘Guffi and I were best mates then, as now.