The Quarry

7

‘So you’ll be staying here for a few weeks now?’ asked the young estate agent as he handed over the keys and the last of the paperwork to Vendela Larsson. ‘Enjoying the spring sunshine?’

‘That’s what we’re hoping,’ said Vendela with a laugh.

She often laughed nervously when she was talking to people she didn’t know. But she was hoping the habit would disappear now she was on the island. A lot of things were going to be different now.

‘Good, excellent,’ said the agent. ‘That means you’ll be helping to extend the tourist season, like real pioneers... Showing people on the mainland that it’s possible to enjoy the peace and quiet of Öland for more than just a few weeks in the summer.’

Vendela nodded.

Enjoy the peace and quiet? That depended on whether she would be able to relax, of course, and whether Max would settle and be able to get his cookery book finished.

Right now he was in the heated garage washing the car. Every drop of blood must go. Since they had arrived at the summer house Max hadn’t said a word about what had happened on the way, but fury surrounded him like a sour smell.

Vendela had been left to deal with the agent, and she was trying not to shiver in the cold wind. It was evening; the sun had set over the sound and taken every vestige of warmth with it. She really wanted to go back indoors.

The agent looked around in the twilight, over at the large house next door and the small cottage a few hundred metres to the north.

‘This is an excellent area,’ he said. ‘Absolutely top-notch. The neighbours are just in the right place — not too close, not too far away. And no other properties between you and the shore... All you have to do is walk around the quarry if you fancy a morning dip.’

‘Once the ice has melted, of course,’ said Vendela.

‘It won’t be long now,’ said the agent. ‘It’s quite rare for it to be here this late... but we had a hard winter this year. Minus fifteen some nights.’

A stocky man in blue dungarees was standing next to the agent. He was the local builder, and nodded to Vendela.

‘Any problems, give me a ring,’ he said.

Those were his first and last words to Vendela this evening. Both he and the agent made a move.

‘Don’t fall out with your neighbours,’ was the agent’s final piece of advice to Vendela as they shook hands. ‘That’s the golden rule for house-owners.’

‘We haven’t met the neighbours yet,’ said Vendela, laughing again.

As she walked back into the house, little Aloysius hauled himself laboriously out of his dog basket on his stiff legs and barked. He didn’t seem to be aware that it was his mistress who had come into the room — perhaps his sense of smell was failing too.

‘It’s only me, Ally,’ said Vendela, patting him.

She had felt a little exposed out in the windswept garden, but in here nobody could get to her. She loved the clean surfaces in the new house. Everything was pristine, there was no rubbish hidden in cupboards or attics. There was no cellar waiting to be cleared out and cleaned.

She remembered what the agent had said about the neighbours, and suddenly had an idea: perhaps she and Max ought to organize a party for everyone in the village, some time this week, so that they could get to know people. It would also be a way for her to practise relaxing when she was in company.

A party would definitely be a good idea.

Although it wasn’t actually the neighbours she wanted to meet, it was the elves.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, a hunter went out on to the alvar, her father had told Vendela one evening. The hunter was after hares and pheasants, but instead he met the great love of his life out there. And he was never the same again.

She had been six or seven years old when her father, Henry, started to tell her a story about the elves out on the alvar. Vendela had never forgotten that story. She often pondered on it and everything else she had learned about the elves over the years.

She started to write down Henry’s story, exactly as she remembered it:

Vendela looked up and studied the wide sound beyond the window. In the darkness the ice looked grey and dirty.

If she leaned close to the glass she could see the house next door, which made her think about the party again. Yes, she would definitely get that organized.

She leaned back and continued to write:

Vendela paused. She heard a dull roar, and looked out of the window. A car was coming slowly up the gravel track, and Vendela recognized it immediately.

It was the Saab from the car park.

The car passed their house on its way to the old cottage by the north-eastern end of the quarry. Behind the wheel sat the fair-haired man who had flattened Max. His teenage son was sitting next to him.

When Vendela saw the man in profile, she realized who he reminded her of: Martin. He bore a slight resemblance to her first husband.

Perhaps that was why Max had been so angry with him. Vendela had bumped into Martin by chance one day five years ago and had lunch with him, and she had been stupid enough to tell Max about it. He still brought the matter up from time to time.

So she had already met a couple of the neighbours, in fact. But did she really want to invite these people to a party? She was going to have to discuss it with Max.

She bent over her book and wrote a final paragraph, the end of the story:

‘That was a story about the elves,’ her father had said, getting up from the edge of the bed. ‘Time to go to sleep now, Vendela.’

Henry had told her stories about the elves on several occasions after that. He never mentioned his late wife, but the queen seemed to fascinate him. And the story of the elves had remained in Vendela’s thoughts. It made her begin to dream of doing as the hunter had done, setting off for the place where she could meet them.