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

for you one day. My daughter enjoys it too – I’m teaching her to play – and the other girl as well, though I have to say she displays more determination than talent.’ After a brief silence, she continued: ‘It’s quite something, isn’t it? For a tiny hamlet like this to have its own teacher and piano teacher for a class of two. Beat that if you can!’

Una grinned and nodded. ‘But aren’t I holding you up?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you need to put your daughter to bed?’

‘Oh, no, she puts herself to bed. Don’t worry, I like talking. Just say when you’re ready for bed yourself.’

‘I’ll stay and finish my coffee then, if that’s OK,’ Una said. Despite being tired, she was grateful for the company.

‘I’d like that,’ Salka said warmly.

‘You were going to tell me about the other locals. Who else lives here?’

‘Oh, yes, so I was. There are two couples; both the men work for Guffi on the boat. I gather they’ve been with him for years. I think they own shares in his fishing business and do quite well out of it. Like I said, he’s generous, I’ll give him that.’

‘What sort of age are they?’

‘One’s in his late fifties like Guffi. That’s Gunnar. His wife, Gudrún, runs the local Co-op, though it hardly deserves the name. Gunni and Gunna, you know.’ She winked. They were two of the commonest names in Iceland. ‘The Co-op’s next door – the little concrete building. You may have noticed it when you arrived. It’s only a small shop and sometimes the choice is a bit limited but, don’t worry, no one has to go hungry here. Though I suppose it’ll be quite a change for a city girl like you.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll get used to it.’

‘Yes, one can get used to anything.’

Una wasn’t so sure about that but didn’t like to argue.

‘Then there’s Kolbeinn and Inga, who are younger, both fortyish. They’re the parents of your other pupil, Kolbrún.’ Salka hesitated, then said: ‘Inga’s quite like her daughter, to be honest – not particularly outgoing. She can be a bit gruff with people. Kolbeinn, on the other hand …’ She let the sentence trail off. ‘But they go to church with Guffi, of course.’

‘I look forward to meeting this Guffi. What do you think of him?’

‘I have a lot of time for him,’ Salka replied. ‘Like I said, his wife, Erika, is in a wheelchair, poor thing. She’s quite a lot older than him too, ten years or so. I don’t see her very often as she doesn’t get out much, but apparently she used to be a librarian in Egilsstadir and that’s where they met, before she moved out here with him. I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with her and don’t like to ask. Perhaps it’s just general fatigue and her age, but presumably the time will come when they’ll have to move to a town where she can have access to better care.’ Again she paused. ‘But since Guffi’s the loudest advocate for keeping the village going, it would be a difficult decision for them. Or for him, at least.’

Una finished her coffee. ‘Is there a doctor anywhere nearby?’

‘No, not here in the village. But there’s a district doctor, of course, who’s supposed to look after us when necessary. He visits from time to time, and people try not to get ill until he’s expected.’ She smiled.

A silence fell and after a while Salka resumed: ‘Everything revolves around the sea here, Una. There are good fishing grounds just offshore, which is the only reason the village exists. If it weren’t for the fish, I wouldn’t be here writing books and you wouldn’t be here to teach the children. We’re totally dependent on the fish. And the weather – the wretched climate. The men need good conditions to be able to get out to the fishing grounds and home again safely. So here in the village we pray for the fish and the weather, as well as all the usual, everyday things …’ The humorous note had left her voice and she sounded oddly serious. Una found herself wondering apprehensively what she had let herself in for. What would conditions be like in the depths of winter on this remote peninsula, thrust far out into the Arctic Ocean?

Bitterly cold, she guessed, with howling gales.

And all-enveloping darkness.

IV

‘So, this is it,’ Salka said, a hint of pride in her voice, once they were upstairs in the flat that was to be Una’s new home.

Una derived a certain comfort from the fact that Salka seemed so pleased with her house and so at home in the village. Not that Salka was a true incomer, since her family had come from the village, but it certainly sounded as if the locals had welcomed her with open arms. Una hoped she would experience the same warmth herself.

‘I described it as the upstairs but, as you can see, it’s really more of an attic. I hope you’re not too disappointed. Sometimes you have to play the role of estate agent and talk things up a bit. But I reckon it’s not bad, though I say so myself.’

‘Oh yes, it’s great, really great.’ They were standing in the living area, a combination of sitting room, dining room and kitchen, all rolled into one. The kitchen table stood by a large dormer window.

‘You’ve got a good view of the sea from here,’ Salka pointed out, ‘though of course you can’t see anything now, in the fog. I used this kitchen myself for a couple of months when we first moved in, while I was renovating the kitchen downstairs. The fridge is in good condition and so’s the cooker. Maybe we could take it in turns to cook for each other – from time to time, at least. I’m afraid I’m not very good in the kitchen. My daughter far prefers other people’s cooking. I seem to have been born without any talents in