The Quarry - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Johan Theorin (28) #31

28

Gerlof was sitting in the garden. It was Good Friday, the day that Jesus had died on the cross. When he was a little boy, Gerlof had been forced to mark the day by doing absolutely nothing. You were not allowed to play, or listen to the radio, or talk loudly, and you were most definitely not allowed to laugh. All you could do, in fact, was sit still on a chair. As an old man he marked the day in more or less the same way, but now it felt pleasantly restful.

He was waiting for his children and grandchildren to arrive from the west coast. There were things he could be doing; he had customers waiting for ships in bottles, and he was paid well for making them. But it was a holiday, after all, and in any case his thoughts kept returning to the pile of Ella’s old diaries.

He should never have started looking at them.

In the end he got up and went to fetch the diary for 1957. He settled down in his chair, opened the diary somewhere around the middle, and began to read Ella’s neat handwriting.

16^th June 1957

Last night we had a storm, and the children and I got up to watch the lightning. It struck three times out in the sound — we could hear the water crackling. Gerlof slept through the whole thing, but I suppose he’s used to noise out at sea.

Yesterday he cycled up to Långvik, bought a new fishing net and cycled back to lay it out, then he got up at five this morning to check it — there were twenty-five flounder and six perch. So today we had fish in white sauce — delicious.

This morning Lena and Julia saw a young deer run across the road into the forest.

Today that poor widower Henry Fors who lives to the north of the village sold his last two calves for slaughter, the wagon came from Kalmar to fetch them at two o’clock, so now he just has the three cows that his daughter Vendela helps him with. It’s sad, but I suppose he needs the money.

Ella was right about Vendela Larsson’s father, Gerlof thought; he had never had much money. A few skinny cows grazing on meadows that were anything but lush, and his job in the little village quarry that could no longer compete with the big companies. It wasn’t easy.

He turned to the next page:

27^th June 1957

It’s been a while since I wrote; time goes so quickly and I’ve got so much to do that the days just disappear. And I don’t always feel like writing, anyway.

It’s hot and sunny — summer has definitely arrived.

Gerlof has sailed down to Kalmar to measure the ship; he went yesterday and took the girls with him — they’re on holiday from school. I’m perfectly happy up here in the village on my own, though — I mean, there’s the sewing group down in Borgholm, but I don’t really miss it. It’s mostly talk and gossip about whoever hasn’t turned up that evening, so I expect they’ll be busy talking about me right now.

There are cock pheasants all over the place in the evenings; I expect they’re attracted by the hen pheasants down on the farms. The owners of the hens have no intention of letting them get together!

The little changeling from the pasture crept up to the cottage again today, and I gave him some oatcakes and lemonade. He’s full of life, he never stands still, but he doesn’t say much, and he won’t tell me who he is or where he comes from.

He needs a wash. And his hair is really long and matted — I’ve never seen anything like it.

Suddenly Gerlof heard the sound of a car engine, and almost jumped out of his seat. A car was coming along the village road; it slowed down and turned in.

He quickly closed the diary and hid it under the blanket; he was sitting quietly and calmly in his chair when the gate was opened and the Volvo rolled slowly down the path, bringing his two daughters and their families. The car doors were flung open.

‘Hello Granddad! Here we are!’

‘Welcome!’ Gerlof shouted, waving cheerfully. ‘Happy Easter!’

They all climbed out: Lena and her youngest daughter, then Julia and her two youngest stepsons, along with their suitcases and rucksacks.

The family had arrived, and that was the end of his peace and quiet.

The grandchildren gave Gerlof a quick hug, then raced into the cottage and switched on the TV or the radio — whatever it was, the volume was turned up high and loud music came pouring out of the windows.

Gerlof stayed in his chair on the lawn, thinking about what Good Friday had been like when he was a child.

‘How are you, Dad? Is everything nice and quiet here?’

It was Julia. She gave him a kiss on the cheek.

‘It’s nice and quiet here at the cottage,’ said Gerlof. ‘I think the whole village is pretty quiet... but the people by the quarry have moved in.’

‘What are they like?’

‘Quite pleasant.’ He thought about the magazine Jerry Morner had suddenly thrown down on the table the other night. ‘And slightly odd, in some cases.’

‘Shall we go over and see them?’

‘No, I was at a party over there on Wednesday. That’s quite enough.’

‘So it’ll be just us for Easter?’

Gerlof nodded. He had a young relative up in Marnäs, his brother’s granddaughter Tilda, but she had found a new man back in the autumn and was fully occupied with her new life.

‘So what else have you been up to, then?’

‘I spend a lot of time just sitting here thinking.’

‘What about?’

‘Nothing.’

Julia held out her hands. ‘Do you want to get up?’

Gerlof smiled and quickly shook his head. He didn’t want to get up right now. ‘I’m fine here.’

Sooner or later he was going to have to talk to his daughters about Ella’s diaries, and find out what they knew about her visitor.