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

evening. No doubt there would be a chance to talk to him later – perhaps even to get him in private. Hjördís’s presence was an inhibiting factor, though. Una had sensed, not for the first time, that the other woman took a possessive interest in Thór, despite his claim that they were just good friends.

She made up her mind to catch him, as soon as Hjördís took her eyes off him. The tradition was to hold an after-party in the church, where the villagers could socialize as they tucked into the refreshments Gudrún had provided. If the pancake Una had pinched was anything to go by, they were in for a treat.

She rose to her feet. Best go and reclaim her seat. Maybe she’d think of some witty remark to whisper in Thór’s ear. Anyway, nothing could be more natural than for her, as the girls’ teacher, to sit in the front row.

The programme consisted of three carols, each more beautiful than the last: first two traditional Icelandic songs, ‘One Fine Night’ and ‘A Festival Entereth In’, then ‘Silent Night’ as the finale.

As Una emerged into the nave, she almost collided with Salka and Edda. The little girl was looking lovely with her long fair hair hanging loose over a simple white dress, with a subtle decorative weave that glittered in the light of the candles. Edda smiled palely at Una, who suddenly had the disturbing feeling that she was looking at the girl in the old photograph. It must be an illusion created by the solemn atmosphere, the white dress, the blonde hair. They all combined to strike a chill into Una’s flesh, making her shiver just as she had when she awoke in the night with that lullaby echoing in her ears. For an instant she stood quite still, and so did the child in front of her. Meeting her gaze, Una had a disorientating sense that she was looking into the eyes of the girl in the picture, as if her ghost had returned to the village, half a century later, wearing the same white dress.

Una closed her eyes for a moment, breaking the spell, then forced herself to greet the mother and daughter, looking only at Salka. ‘Nice to see you,’ she said weakly, then, drawing a deep breath: ‘You must be excited. It’s going to be a wonderful evening.’ She tried to force her trembling lips into a smile: ‘It’s going to be absolutely wonderful.’

XX

Una had reclaimed her seat beside Thór and Hjördís. Twice she had been on the point of speaking to him, racking her brains for something interesting or clever to say, but both times she had changed her mind at the last minute and gone on staring down at the floor or up at the altarpiece. Thór and Hjördís sat in silence as well, exchanging no comments. Perhaps they had long ago run out of things to say to each other.

The keenly anticipated concert got off to a reasonably good start. Gudrún stood up unexpectedly at the beginning to say a few words. This should probably have been Una’s job, but no one had mentioned anything about it to her, and, to be fair to Gudrún, she did at least thank Una for her generous help with the preparations.

Salka then played a beautiful piece on the organ, which was followed by a reading of the Christmas story from the Gospels, an honour which by custom fell to Guffi. He read the familiar text in a mumble, tripping over the words as if he had never seen them before and completely failing to capture the Christmas spirit.

And then at last it was the turn of the children’s choir, as Gudrún liked to call it, though to Una’s mind you couldn’t really use the word ‘choir’ for two people. But perhaps in a community as small as Skálar, different rules applied.

Gudrún bobbed up again and this time invited Una to the front. Una shook her head, desperate to get out of the duty, but eventually let herself be persuaded and left her place, feeling the sweat break out on her forehead as she did so. She was used to standing in front of a group of children in the classroom, but not to public speaking on an occasion like this, especially not in the company of people with whom she had so little in common; where she didn’t feel welcome.

After she had said a few, stumbling words, the girls walked slowly but confidently to the front, and Una threw them both an encouraging smile as she slipped back to her seat, though only Edda returned it. Kolbrún looked dour, as usual. Still, at least both girls seemed ready, and Una knew the audience wouldn’t be too critical. In fact, the girls couldn’t ask for a more sympathetic crowd. If their performance fell short in any way, no doubt the blame would be laid firmly at Una’s door. As the first notes emerged a little false, she felt her heart beating faster and sent up a fervent prayer that all would go well.

The end of the first carol was greeted with thunderous applause, and the girls’ performance of the second was as good as Una could have hoped for. The clapping resounded around the little church even louder than before, and now it was not only Edda and her mother who were smiling but also, wonder of all wonders, Kolbrún too. Perhaps all the child needed to bring her out of her shell was a little more encouragement and attention than she was used to getting. Remembering her encounter with Kolbeinn, Una reflected that Kolbrún’s family life was bound to be overshadowed by the lack of affection in her parents’ marriage. She felt a wave of pity for the girl.

The concert reached its height as Salka played the introduction to the final carol, ‘Silent Night’. The girls stood poised, their faces radiating pride and pleasure in their own performance. Then they raised their voices