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

be silly,’ her friend said affectionately. ‘We’d just have to make more of an effort to visit one another.’ Then: ‘To be honest, that’s why I hesitated a bit about showing you the advert. Because I don’t want to lose you. But I still think it would be the ideal opportunity for you – for a year or so.’

Teacher wanted at the edge of the world. The honesty of the advertisement appealed to Una. There was no attempt to hide the fact that the job would be a challenge. She wondered how many people would apply. If she went for it, she might be the only one. And she had to admit that there wasn’t much to hold her here in town. Of course, there was Sara, but, if she was honest, they weren’t really as close as they used to be. Now that Sara had got herself a family – a husband and a child – she seemed to have less and less time to devote to their friendship. They’d met at sixth-form college, but over the years life had conspired to send them in different directions. Una had been kidding herself that this evening would be like it was in the old days, when they used to party late into the night. They’d watch the concert together, mix themselves some exotic cocktails, have a laugh. She had a sudden horrible suspicion that maybe Sara was trying to get rid of her by showing her this advertisement. Maybe she was secretly bored of their friendship.

Well, the truth was that Una wouldn’t find it that hard to spend a winter on Langanes without seeing Sara. It was her mother she was more worried about missing. They were so close, after going through so much together, but her mother, a fit and healthy fifty-seven-year-old, had long ago found herself a new husband who she adored. No, Una had to face facts: her mother no longer needed her there every day.

‘Anyway, let’s leave it for now,’ she said, closing Morgunbladid. ‘Can I keep the paper?’

‘Sure.’ Sara stood up, her coffee cup empty. ‘I’ve got to get going, but we’re still seeing each other this evening, aren’t we? It’s going to be fun, just the two of us – a girls’ night in. And you promise to think about it? About the job, I mean. I reckon it could be just the thing for you.’

And Una found herself thinking that maybe it was time to move on and meet new people. To do something spontaneous and exciting for once, without wasting too much time weighing up the pros and cons. ‘All right, all right,’ she said, smiling. ‘I promise.’

II

It was an unusually fine August day, mild with not a breath of wind stirring the leaves, and even the odd glimpse of sun.

Una tended to find August rather depressing. It marked the end of the brief Icelandic summer, the point at which the first proper darkness began to creep back after weeks of light nights, but this year she felt different. She was standing on the steps outside the block of flats in Kópavogur where her mother lived with her stepfather. The building was so bleak and run-down that Una would never have dreamt of living there herself. She was much happier in her little place in the old west end, even though it was a basement flat. Now, however, it had been rented out to a young couple with a small child.

Una’s mother had come outside with her after their morning coffee. The time had come to say goodbye, at least for a while.

‘We’ll come and visit you – you know that, darling. And it’s only for a year, isn’t it?’

‘Only for the school year, Mum; only over the winter,’ Una said, ‘but you’re both welcome any time.’ She wasn’t being entirely sincere. Her mother was welcome, but Una had never warmed to her new husband – well, she still thought of him as new, though he had entered their life quite a long time ago. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something about him she didn’t like.

‘Are you planning to stop for the night somewhere?’ her mother asked. ‘It’s a terribly long way. It must be more than 700 kilometres! You must rest if you feel yourself getting sleepy. It’s dangerous to drive if you’re tired.’

‘I know, Mum,’ Una answered patiently. ‘I’m breaking the journey in Akureyri.’ Her mother’s fussing could be a bit much at times. She needed to be able to breathe, to be allowed to stand on her own two feet. And what better opportunity would she have than this: the position of teacher in a village so small it hardly deserved the name? Only ten people. How on earth could such a tiny community survive?

It would certainly be interesting and also, she hoped, reinvigorating for body and soul. In the event, getting the job had been child’s play. Several days after Sara had come round with the advertisement, Una had finally psyched herself up to ring the number provided. The phone had been answered by a woman – in her thirties, Una guessed – who lived in Skálar and apparently sat on the education committee of the local authority. ‘I’m very pleased to hear you’re interested,’ the woman said. ‘To tell the truth, no one else has called about the job.’

Una had explained that she was a qualified teacher with plenty of experience.

‘But why do you want to move out here?’ the woman had asked.

Una had been momentarily stumped for an answer. She had so many reasons: to escape from her monotonous life in town; to have a break from Sara, or rather, to let Sara get on with her own life for a while; to have a rest from her mother – and even more from her stepfather; to have a change of scene. But the real reason lay deeper.

‘I just want to try living in the countryside,’ she had told the