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

worry. I’ll lend you one of mine, though, if you’re interested.’

‘Yes, thanks, that’d be great. Incidentally, what do the locals do? For a living, I mean?’

‘Those who aren’t writing books?’

‘Exactly,’ Una said. She found herself liking this woman, who evidently didn’t take herself very seriously and was, moreover, an outsider too. Una was grateful that she wouldn’t have to live alone, as she’d been doing that for far too long already. Maybe everything would turn out OK, after all. She must make an effort to think positively.

‘There aren’t many of us here, as you’re aware.’

‘Only ten people, I gather.’

Salka nodded. ‘Ten, that’s right. There’s a bit of land above the village where a woman my age is trying to make a go of farming. It’s going OK, from what I hear, but she’s not very sociable, to be honest, so I don’t know her that well. Everyone else is more or less dependent on the sea for their living – on the fishing, that is. The fishery owner with a capital “F”, the big man of the village, lives in the only house that’s nicer than mine.’ She laughed, and Una reflected again that Salka seemed like the cheerful type; a woman who knew how to enjoy life. ‘He’s getting on for sixty and has been running fishing boats here for longer than the oldest folk can remember. Sadly, his wife’s wheelchair bound these days.’

‘Is he well liked?’ Una asked.

‘You’ll either love Guffi or loathe him. He’s that sort of type. Nothing in between. But he’s very popular here. He’s extremely generous, always doing his bit for our little community. And he’s a devout Christian too and sponsors events at the church. Which reminds me, one of your jobs will be organizing the Christmas concert at the church this year, with the children.’

‘What, both of them?’ Una said with a grin.

Salka chuckled. ‘Indeed.’

‘I hope there’ll be enough room in the church for the audience …’

Salka smiled. ‘Joking apart, it’s a lovely old wooden church. You probably noticed it when you arrived. The altarpiece is really special. It’s hard to describe, but it’s like a portrait of Christ and there’s so much depth to the painting; it’s as if he’s there in the church, reaching out from the frame to his flock, enfolding us all in his embrace …’

‘Are you religious yourself?’ Una asked, then wished she hadn’t, thinking her question might seem inappropriate.

Salka didn’t look offended, though. ‘No, not at all, actually. But I can still appreciate a good piece of art, especially when it’s that striking.’

Una wasn’t much of a churchgoer herself, though she had held on to her childhood beliefs; she’d certainly had great need of faith at times in her life.

Salka went on: ‘But I warn you, you’re expected to attend church. Almost everyone does, because they don’t want to get on the wrong side of the boss – the fishery owner, I mean. His name’s Gudfinnur, but everyone calls him Guffi.’

‘It shouldn’t be a problem for me to go along to services. Is there one every Sunday?’

‘Are you kidding? We’re lucky if we can get the vicar out here more than a couple of times a year. He can’t face the journey. The poor man’s getting on, and of course he doesn’t live in the village. But he always holds a Christmas service, if the roads are open, though not on the twenty-fourth. Last year it wasn’t until the twenty-eighth of December, if I remember right.’

Una was used to going to church at Christmas – it was the only time she ever went – and then always to Midnight Mass on the twenty-fourth, after the family – she and her parents in the old days; now just she, her mother and her stepfather – had eaten their gammon and opened their presents. It sounded as if her Christmas would be very different this year.

‘And does the vicar come to the concert I’m supposed to be organizing?’

‘Oh, no, that’s just something we put on ourselves. It was properly festive last year. I took care of the music and the girls sang like angels and looked like them too, all dressed in white.’

‘Are you a composer then? As well as an author?’

Una had sometimes wished she could write music or stories or poetry, or play an instrument, but her talents didn’t lie in that direction. Although she had been a good student, she’d never been artistic. Her parents had been very down-to-earth people and her father, in particular, had never had much time for creative types. He had been a doctor who believed in science above all else, wouldn’t stand for any mention of God in his house and used to describe artists as ‘a plague on society’, arguing that people ought to stick to the sciences and try to understand the world as it really was. He didn’t even listen to music, just used to pore over his books all day – and certainly never bothered with fiction. ‘It’s a total waste of your time, reading trash like that,’ he’d said. Una remembered that conversation well, though she’d only been about twelve at the time.

‘A composer?’ Salka shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say that, but I’m not bad at several instruments. I play the piano quite well, though I say so myself, and I’ve been practising on the little organ in the church. I accompanied the children last Christmas.’ She paused, then said: ‘Actually, I have written a few bits and pieces, just little songs and that sort of thing.’

Una looked round the room again. It was certainly a cultured home, with all those books and paintings … All it lacked was a piano.

Salka seemed to read her mind: ‘I’ve got an old upright piano in the dining room, through there …’ She pointed. ‘It belonged to my grandmother. We’re a very musical family. It’s an old Russian instrument – don’t ask me how it ended up here, but it’s still got a lovely sound. Maybe I’ll play something