Strange Shores

10

He has crept into his parents’ room in search of comfort and reassurance but his father is unresponsive. He sits impassively on the edge of the bed, stony-faced, mute and withdrawn. It sometimes happens like this. Minutes pass.

‘It’ll be all right,’ Erlendur says timidly.

He feels much calmer than during his earlier frenzied struggle to return to the moors. His fingers and toes are still aching from the worst patches of frostbite but otherwise he is remarkably well and has suffered no harm from his night in the snow.

There are times, when his father is in one of his moods, that he is afraid to disturb him. Beggi too. Then the brothers sense that their father needs to be left in peace, spared the noise and commotion that children bring. When the black cloud is upon him, he tends to withdraw into the sitting room, where they are seldom allowed to set foot, and will practise the violin for hours. He also has two mouth organs, and can play other instruments, such as the accordion. As a result he is much in demand for parties and dances, though he rarely obliges since there is nothing he detests more than rowdy, drunken behaviour. Far more to his taste is standing in for the church organist when he is ill. He also derives a quiet satisfaction from teaching music to the primary-school children, though the opportunity doesn’t often arise. Recently he has established a small string orchestra with musicians from all over the eastern districts. One of them plays the guitar which Erlendur finds much jollier than his father’s violin, particularly since the man in question runs a small record shop and stocks all the latest hits.

His father keeps his violin in a handsome case in the bedroom wardrobe, from which he takes it out most days, together with his sheet music, before retiring to the sitting room. His practice sessions vary in length and the boys are occasionally allowed to watch, but he is unpredictable: at other times he will throw them out and shut the door. The instrument emits squawks and squeaks as he tunes it and warms up the strings, making the boys clamp their hands over their ears. Often the violin is alive under his touch and the strings vibrate to a jaunty tune, filling the house with the purest notes. But there are other days when he can call forth nothing but a sound of dark, plangent yearning, as if for courage and fortitude.

Some days are better than others and Erlendur is learning to recognise his father’s moods, but it is only with hindsight that he can see that he was in the grip of a severe depression. He tries to introduce his sons to the world of music and teach them to play their own instruments and but soon discovers that neither has any real aptitude. They learn a few basics but lack the determination and passion to continue. He doesn’t force them, conceding that there is no point, though he hopes they will eventually learn to appreciate music.

He had grown up to the sound of the accordion and male-voice choirs, then, inspired by the acquisition of a harmonica in his teens, he headed north to Akureyri to study music. Such opportunities were rare in the Depression years but in the event he had to abandon his studies prematurely and return home. He played mainly on borrowed instruments, even at music school, but long cherished the dream of ownership. Over time he saved up enough for a second-hand violin that he had learned was for sale at Höfn, down in the south-east. That was just after Beggi came into the world.

The Bakkasel family have little money to spare and seldom permit themselves any luxuries. Thrift is a necessity. Their farming is on a small scale but the music lessons he gives bring in extra cash and the boys’ mother ekes out their income by working in the fish factory when needs must. Presents are for Christmas and birthdays only, but once in a while the sun breaks through the clouds and their father is in such high spirits that he buys the boys little gifts to make up for the bad times. These are nothing special, just cheap toys, but worth their weight in gold in the eyes of his sons, for whom it is the thought that counts.

In his worst bouts of depression, their father takes to his bed and will not leave his room. They are forced to creep around the house on tiptoe. His condition is usually most severe around Christmas and New Year, in the blackest depths of winter when it feels as if the sun will never return. Long, dark days succeed one another and the violin lies untouched in its case, both its celebrations and its dirges silenced.

His father is aware that one of his sons has been found alive but the knowledge is not enough to pierce his isolation or mitigate his anguish. No one knows the violence of the storm better than him: he came close to dying himself. So he does not respond to Erlendur, although the boy has come in need of consoling. His younger son is still missing and the single thought that fills his head is fear that the boy is already dead.

Erlendur stands at a loss beside his father, whose indifference fuels his growing sense of dread that he must somehow be to blame. Trying not to think about what exactly he has done, he longs instead for reassurance that he is mistaken, that he couldn’t have behaved any differently. But his father is unreachable. He will not respond, will not even look at Erlendur. The fact that this son at least is safe does not appear to afford him any solace. The silence stretches out unbearably. It is almost worse than lying in the snow.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, so quietly that the words are barely audible. ‘I didn’t mean to. . I shouldn’t have. .’

His father raises his head and looks at him.

‘What have you got there?’

‘You gave it to me: it’s a soldier,’ he says, opening his fist to show him. ‘Beggi got a little car.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You gave me the soldier and Beggi the car.’

‘Did I?’

‘He had the car with him. It was in his glove.’