Strange Shores

17

The snow was coming down ever more heavily as Erlendur parked in front of the nursing home in Fáskrúdsfjördur. Instead of getting out, he lit up and watched the flakes floating lazily to the ground. There was not a breath of wind.

As he sat there, taking his time over the cigarette, he relived the walks he had been on since arriving in the east. Clad in his old boots, waterproof trousers and a thick down jacket, with a small rucksack on his back, he had hiked from the head of Eskifjördur up to the moor, along the foothills of the mountains, then high up their flanks. It had been returning from one such trip that he had bumped into Bóas by the Urdarklettur crags. His expeditions generally lasted from early in the morning until dusk, though on one occasion he had slept rough on a carpet of moss, alone with the birds. He enjoyed lying on his back, head propped on his rucksack, gazing up at the stars and reflecting on the theory that the universe was expanding into the void. There was something strangely soothing about pondering such incomprehensible distances, as if a reminder of the greater context provided a temporary relief from petty terrestrial concerns.

It was not the first time he had bedded down in the heather, listened to the birds and contemplated the sky. He had a clear memory of his first trip back east after the family had moved to Reykjavík. It was following the death of his father, whose last wish had been to be laid to rest in his home ground. Erlendur and his mother had flown with his body to Egilsstadir and driven from there to Eskifjördur on rough gravel roads, with the coffin in the back of an open pickup truck. He remembered thinking what an undignified homecoming it was. He and his mother had sat in the cab, listening to the driver gassing away, music blaring from his radio. Erlendur had wanted to ask him to show a little respect, but his mother had seemed indifferent. There was a short ceremony in the church, attended by a handful of locals. It was the middle of the week, the funeral had only been announced once on the radio and there were no obituaries. In the end mother and son had been left standing alone by the open grave. A white cross bearing a black metal plaque lay beside them, waiting to be driven into the ground.

‘God bless you,’ he heard his mother whisper.

Later that day he took her to visit the croft at Bakkasel, which had been standing empty ever since they moved to Reykjavík. The house was already looking very dilapidated, the doors wide open, windows broken and signs of animal activity inside. At first, his mother had wandered from room to room in a daze, as if their life there had belonged to another world, a world that was gone forever. Until now, her resilience had surprised him. She had shown no emotion when his father died long before his time, merely busied herself with organising his funeral the way she knew he would have wanted it. She had not shed a tear on the journey or expressed any irritation at the garrulous driver, and had stood in the graveyard speaking only those three whispered words: ‘God bless you.’ But now, confronted by the evidence of decay and neglect, and remembering the time when they had all lived there together, she seemed to have woken from her stupor. At last a crack appeared in her calm facade.

‘What’s happened here?’ she whispered.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

‘I can’t,’ she said, so quietly he could hardly catch the words.

‘Come on.’

That night, after his mother had gone to bed at the guest house, he had hiked up onto the moor. It was summer, the sky still brightened by the midnight sun, and he had walked right to the foot of Mount Hardskafi, where he had stretched out on the moss and gazed up at the heavens. He had been a child when they moved away and it was with mixed emotions that he returned now as an adult. The visit to the abandoned croft had dredged up memories long forgotten or suppressed. Deep down he knew that he had been avoiding this place, not just physically but in his mind. The light Arctic night offered no comfort. On the contrary, it illuminated with painful clarity all that was most difficult and distressing about this homecoming. He was convinced there and then that he would never be a happy man — not that it really mattered in the great scheme of things.

Erlendur stubbed out a second cigarette. He watched the snow turning the earth a pristine white, like the promise of a new beginning, and inwardly cursed the cruelty of fate.

Ninna, a tiny old lady of eighty-five, was reading the Bible in her room when Erlendur, with the help of an attendant, tracked her down. He had been keen to avoid any awkward attempts to explain his visit to the staff, but in the event he was directed to her room without query and had no problem finding it.

‘Who are you?’ she asked in a clear voice.

‘My name’s Erlendur and I’d like a word with you, if that’s all right.’

‘I rarely get any visitors,’ Ninna said. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, the Bible in her hands and her long grey hair trailing loose down her back. ‘Though a girl came here the other day and started rabbiting on about traditional farming methods. She said she was collecting recordings of old folks like me for the National Museum. I said, look, dear, I have no time for nostalgic twaddle like that and absolutely no intention of being an exhibit in the National Museum. You can put me there when I’m dead!’

‘Ninna — it’s an unusual name, isn’t it?’ said Erlendur, testing the waters. She had few personal belongings in her room; no photographs of relatives or ornaments to cheer up her surroundings apart from two old prints on the walls. Her bed was neatly made and a half-full glass of water stood on the bedside table.

‘So what if it is?’ said the old woman, closing the Bible with a snap. ‘What do you want with me, young man?’

Erlendur abandoned the attempt to ingratiate himself.

‘I’m investigating what happened on the night in January 1942 when the British soldiers were caught in a storm on Eskifjördur Moor. Do you remember it?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘That night a woman died as well. I believe she was a friend of yours.’

‘Yes, Matthildur. Poor, dear Matthildur. Know all about her, do you?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘Matthildur was a wonderful girl,’ said Ninna. ‘We were great friends and it was a terrible loss when she died. Someone spread the rumour that she’d committed suicide but I always regarded that as tosh.’

‘Oh?’ said Erlendur. This was new.

‘They put it about that she must have thrown herself in the sea — that she’d never been near the moors or the British soldiers would have run into her. Absolute tosh. The soldiers couldn’t see a thing and didn’t have a clue where they were. That was one rumour and a malicious one too.’

‘That she’d killed herself, you mean?’

‘She’d never have done that in a million years,’ declared Ninna firmly. ‘She had no reason to. None whatsoever. I knew her better than that. The suggestion was ludicrous.’

‘So what do you think happened?’

‘I expect she died in the storm. It wouldn’t be the first time in this country.’

‘Did you know Jakob well?’

‘I was with her the first time they met. He came from Reykjavík. Lived in Djúpivogur for a while. They didn’t really know each other that well.’

‘What kind of man was he?’

‘Frankly, I thought she could have done better,’ said Ninna. ‘Though I never said as much to her face. Or his, for that matter. After all, it was none of my business, even when the truth came out. She was my friend and I’m in no position to judge her. I ended up with a wrong ’un myself — though I don’t wish to speak ill of my Viggó.’

Ninna’s old eyes regarded him. ‘When those good-for-nothings drink, then you’ve really had it.’

Erlendur smiled to himself. ‘The truth came out?’ he repeated.

‘Yes.’

‘What came out?’

‘That they’d been with the same man.’

‘Who?’

‘Not at the same time, of course. Matthildur met him later.’

‘Hang on a minute — Jakob knew her sister.’ Erlendur recalled Matthildur’s letter to Ingunn.

‘Jakob and Ingunn had been stepping out but it didn’t last and was over by then. I remember Matthildur telling me her sister had been dead set against her marriage. By then Ingunn had moved south to Reykjavík. I reckon she moved because of Jakob. But what would I know? It had nothing to do with me.’

‘Bastard’ had been scrawled in bold letters across the obituary in Ingunn’s possession. It had obviously been written in anger. Although that did not necessarily mean Ingunn had written it herself, it did seem highly likely if what Ninna said was anything to go by. Ingunn and Jakob had known each other before she moved to Reykjavík to start a new life, and later fate had decreed that he should marry her sister. Judging by the letter, Matthildur had been aware that Ingunn and Jakob were acquainted, but apparently not how intimately.

‘Did Matthildur know about their relationship?’

‘Know! It only came to light after they got married. The consequences only emerged then.’

‘Consequences?’

‘Well, it was never common knowledge. I was in on the secret, and maybe a few others. After all, Ingunn had moved away and seldom came home.’

‘What secret?’

‘About the baby,’ said Ninna. ‘Ingunn had a child by Jakob. Matthildur was distraught when she found out. Quite distraught.’