The Quarry

37

After Easter, everything went back to normal in Gerlof’s little garden, once his children and grandchildren had gone home.

The last of the dead leaves had fallen off the hazel bushes around the garden, and Gerlof could see small, busy shadows hopping about among the branches. They were bullfinches, newly arrived migrants who would either remain in the village for the whole summer, or just rest for a few days before continuing across the Baltic to Finland and Russia. He could hear them too — the chorus of the finches sounded like tinkling bells.

The temperature had risen by a few degrees; there was only a gentle breeze, and Gerlof could work on his model ships out on the lawn. John Hagman had given him an old, well-dried piece of mahogany that he was intending to use to build a full-rigged ship. They had had their glory days on the world’s oceans long before he himself became a sea captain, but he had always loved them.

He could also carry on reading Ella’s diaries in secret. From time to time he had found a note about her visitor.

Gerlof stopped reading. He looked over towards the village road in the north and thought about the fact that Ella’s visitor had always come from that direction.

What lay to the north? In the fifties there had been a few farms and boathouses up there; apart from that, there was nothing but grass and bushes. And the quarry, of course. That was the closest, on the other side of the road.

He was going to start reading again, but the bell on the gate heralded the arrival of a visitor; not the care service this time, but Per Mörner. He waved, and Gerlof waved back. They hadn’t seen each other since the previous week, at the party.

‘I’m back,’ said Per, walking across the lawn.

‘I didn’t even know you’d been away,’ said Gerlof. ‘Did you take your father back to the mainland?’

‘That was the idea,’ Per said quietly, ‘but one or two things got in the way... He’s still here, I’m looking after him.’

He lowered his eyes as he spoke.

‘Well, that’s good,’ said Gerlof. ‘You’ll be able to spend some time together.’

‘Yes,’ said Per, not looking particularly pleased at the prospect.

There was a short silence, then he suddenly asked, ‘By the way, do you know anything about the blood over in the quarry?’

‘Traces of blood?’ said Gerlof. ‘I’ve never seen any.’

‘Not traces of blood,’ said Per. ‘It’s more like a red layer that you can see in the rock... Ernst used to talk about the place of blood.’

‘Oh, that?’ Gerlof laughed. ‘Yes, that’s what the quarry workers used to call it. But it’s not blood, it’s iron oxide. It was formed when Öland lay beneath the water, and the quarry was part of the sea bed. The sun shone down through the waters of the Baltic and the sea bed oxidized. Then the island rose from the waves and the iron oxide solidified and formed a layer of rock... It was before my time, of course, but that’s what I’ve read.’

‘But did the quarry workers believe it was blood?’

‘No, no, but they had lots of names for the different strata within the rock.’ Gerlof raised a hand and counted on his fingers: ‘There was the hard layer on the top; that was full of cracks, and they just broke it off and shovelled it away. Then there was the sticky layer that was solid and difficult to quarry. After that they reached the good layer, where they found the best, finest limestone, and that was what they dug out and sold. And underneath that, in certain parts, was the place of blood.’

‘Was the stone good down there?’

‘No, quite the opposite,’ said Gerlof. ‘When they reached the place of blood they’d gone too far.’

Per nodded and said, ‘So now I know. There’s always a simple explanation.’

Gerlof glanced at Ella’s diary, lying on the table. ‘Well, usually.’