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

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