Whale Fjord

Five

The Nissen huts arrived, together with winter clothing — boots with rubber covers and wool insoles, warm socks, leather mittens with wool liners — and a delayed bundle of letters. A bag of seven footballs and seven rugger balls appeared; only the army knew why a platoon of thirty men needed fourteen balls, especially since they didn’t have enough .303 rounds for the Vickers machine guns. They even received new shoulder patches: an image of the division’s new emblem, a rather glum polar bear. Morale rose, particularly once the first delivery of coke was received for the Nissen huts’ stoves.

It stopped raining. For the first time in weeks, Tom’s platoon was dry.

No sign of the Germans, apart from a lone Focke-Wulf 200 that had flown high overhead one afternoon to great excitement. The codeword ‘Julius’ would mean an attack from the air or sea was taking place, ‘Caesar’ that German soldiers had landed. Fortunately, they had heard nothing from the Roman Emperor. However, an impressive-looking anti-aircraft gun arrived — with its attendant searchlight — to take up its position in the emplacement the men had prepared for it, together with a detachment of Royal Artillery to pamper it.

In addition to the lorries, the platoon had also been equipped with two motorcycles, Royal Enfield 350 ccs. Tom commandeered one of these. He had owned a smaller BSA Blue Star back in England, which he had used to ride around the Yorkshire countryside from the prep school at which he was teaching.

After the problems on the last tactical exercise, Tom wanted to confirm for himself the quality of the roads and any river crossings in the region. But he also wanted to get away from the camp and explore the countryside alone.

He set off along the road that ran along the southern edge of Hvalfjördur. The sun was shining, glinting off the fjord’s deep waters. A sleek destroyer lurked at anchor. Behind that, a wall of steep hills rose from the far shore. It was hard to believe that these were the same hills that for the last month had glowered black and grey across dark waters to the camp. On his left stood the mighty bulk of Esja, which formed a formidable barrier between the Whale Fjord and Reykjavík to the south-west. A barely perceptible pale half-disk of moon hovered in the blue sky ahead.

Autumn had arrived in Iceland. The grass on the hillsides shimmered golden in the sunlight and the leaves of the squat bushes beside the road had turned yellow and crimson. It was more subtle than an English wood in October, but just as beautiful.

He opened the Enfield’s throttle and felt the cool air and the timid yellow sunshine on his cheeks. His spirits rose.

As part of his English degree at Leeds University, Tom had studied Old Norse, as well as Anglo-Saxon. So he knew that Hvalfjördur meant Whale Fjord. He had yet to see one, though, and he hadn’t heard of a sighting yet, but he always kept an eye out for a whale spout just in case.

When he came to Selvík — Seal Bay — he stopped. An old farm made of stone and turf, with a roof upon which thick grass grew, stood just back from the road by a turning. A ribbon of smoke twisted upwards from the central chimney, and Tom could smell peat.

The dwelling looked damp and cold, more like a burrow than a house. But presumably the farm animals and the fire kept it warm.

Out in the fjord, he saw a head break the water’s surface and a seal stared at him, like a curious dog. Then it was gone.

He turned inland along a well-maintained gravel road beside a clear river, the Selá — Seal River. The river valley was narrow for a stretch, then it turned and opened out into a broad area of lush green fields. Horses grazed, as did some extremely woolly sheep and a dozen or so cattle. They were Icelandic breeds, smaller than their English equivalents, and they came in a variety of colours. The horses watched his motorbike curiously under long fringes of mane; the sheep and the cows seemed less impressed.

He approached a farm, more prosperous than Selvík, which he knew from his map was called Laxahóll — Salmon Hill. That was interesting. Tom had bought a rod on his last visit to Reykjavík and was hopeful of finding somewhere to use it. He had learned to fly fish while teaching at the school in Yorkshire, which had been situated only half a mile from a good trout stream.

Unlike Selvík, this farmhouse was constructed of white concrete with a red metal roof, although the barns next to it were made of the traditional stone and turf. Not far behind it stood a small white metal church.

Chickens scurried about by the roadside. A woman and a boy were feeding them from a bucket. The woman was tall and red-haired and had quite a figure. She smiled, nudged the boy and pointed to Tom on his bike. Tom waved and the small boy waved back, as did the woman. He noticed that she didn’t wear her hair long and plaited, like most of the women in the countryside Tom had seen, but rather collar length and curled like the girls at home.

The road was comparatively well maintained, but this was Iceland, so there was a pothole, and with his eyes off the road, Tom and his motorcycle found it. The front wheel bucked and twisted and slid, and Tom went over the handlebars. He wasn’t wearing a helmet. He managed to duck his head in time so that his skull only sustained a glancing blow.

He lay on the ground, stunned, but still conscious.

The woman squatted next to him, her concerned expression only a few inches from his face.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Ouch,’ he said.

She said something in Icelandic. He raised his goggles and tried to focus. He had been teaching himself Icelandic over the last few months, with the help of a dictionary and his Old Norse.

She repeated it. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘I am just stupid.’

This made her laugh. ‘You speak Icelandic?’

‘No.’

Tom pulled himself to his feet and held his head and his shoulder. He flexed his arm. It hurt, but it wasn’t broken.

He couldn’t believe what an idiot he had been. Ogling a girl and driving right into a pothole.

‘I see if my... if my...’

The woman raised her eyebrows.

He searched for the word he was looking for, but gave up — it was beyond his Old Norse. ‘If my iron stallion is good.’

She laughed. ‘Iron stallion?’

‘Yes. It is a kenning. You know kennings?’

Kennings were the phrases that Norsemen used in the sagas to describe honoured objects. One that Tom had always liked was ‘falcon perch’, which meant arm. A ship was a ‘surge horse’, which is probably where Tom got the idea for iron stallion.

‘Oh, yes, of course.’

‘So what do you call that in Icelandic?’ Tom asked, pointing to the motorcycle, splayed out on the edge of the road.

‘I think I will call it iron stallion from now on,’ said the woman. ‘Can Gudni stroke your iron stallion?’

‘Of course.’ Gudni was a small boy with fair hair and big, big blue eyes. Tom took him by the hand and led him to the iron stallion. Tom picked it up from the dirt and examined it. It looked all right, as far as he could tell.

‘Do you want to mount the stallion?’

The boy nodded, and Tom lifted him on to the seat, wincing as he did so.

‘Your head is bleeding,’ said the woman. ‘Here, let me take a look.’

Tom was happy to bow his head to let her run her fingers through his army-cut hair.

‘Blood. Look.’ She showed him her fingers, and they were indeed red.

‘Beer of wounds,’ said Tom.

‘Well, just make sure you don’t drink it,’ said the woman. ‘Come into the farm and I will wash it and bandage it.’ At least that’s what Tom thought she said — he was guessing the ‘bandage’ bit.

As he followed her and the boy up the slope to the door of the farmhouse, a sprightly man in his fifties approached them from one of the turf barns. He wasn’t very tall, but he looked strong. He sported a well-trimmed, pointed beard — red with streaks of grey — and a classic Icelandic jersey of an intricate blue and white pattern.

‘This my father, Hálfdán,’ said the woman. ‘This is a British soldier who was charging our farm on his iron stallion. He fell off.’

‘Cavalry, eh,’ said the man, with a twinkle in his blue eyes. ‘A battle wound, I see.’

The woman said something in Icelandic that was too rapid for Tom to follow, and led him into the farmhouse, indicating that he should take off his boots.

The kitchen was spotless and looked as modern as its British equivalent, although better decorated, with photographs of family members ancient and modern, paintings of landscapes and blue and yellow curtains. A stove kept the room deliciously warm. The woman turned on a tap at the sink and hot water miraculously appeared — Tom hadn’t seen a tap do that for a while. She filled a bowl, took a sponge and dabbed at Tom’s hair.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Tom.’ He was aware that Icelanders tended to use first names even in polite conversation. Especially in polite conversation. ‘And yours?’

‘Kristín. And this is my son Gudni.’

‘Hello, Gudni.’

‘How do you speak Icelandic?’

‘I learned Old Norse at university in England. And I have tried to pick up modern Icelandic since I have been here.’

‘You are doing well, although your accent is terrible.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘This is how the Vikings spoke.’

Kristín leaned back. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘How do you know?’

‘How do you know?’

‘I learned it from my professor.’

‘And he was a Viking?’

‘Maybe. His name was Tolkien. That sounds Viking to me.’

‘Not to me. Here. Hold this against your head and I’ll get you some coffee.’

The old farmer pulled a small silver box from his pocket. After offering it to Tom, who shook his head, he extracted a pinch of snuff, threw back his head, snorted several times and then blew his nose loudly on a handkerchief. He smiled with triumph at his performance and again offered the box to Tom, clearly perplexed as to why he wouldn’t want to join in.

Coffee arrived, with plenty of cream, and delicious pastries, in which cinnamon played a big part. As Tom drank and ate, his head cleared. His two hosts were eager to talk to him. Tom dug his Icelandic — English dictionary out of his pocket and did the best he could. He had had some conversational practice with the farmer at Tóftir and with some of the Icelandic workmen who had been drafted in near company HQ at Hvammsvík to build the naval facilities. He found the farmer Hálfdán difficult to understand — he spoke in short sharp bursts where the words tumbled over each other. But Kristín was much easier to follow. She spoke slowly and clearly, and seemed to know when to be patient and wait or repeat herself.

Tom wasn’t bad at languages. He had studied English, German and Latin at his own school in North London, and was even responsible for teaching the Lower Fourth Latin at the Yorkshire prep school. Although many of the words were similar to English, Icelandic — and Old Norse for that matter — were even more difficult than Latin grammatically.

The farmer seemed to enjoy pointing out Tom’s many mistakes; Kristín was kinder.

Tom surreptitiously scanned the family photographs. There was one of a younger Hálfdán with a light-haired woman in a wedding dress who was a couple of inches taller than him and looked a lot like Kristín. Her mother, no doubt.

There was another photo of Kristín and a young, devilishly good-looking man in a suit. Her husband.

Oh, well. The woman had a son, so she was bound to have a husband.

Tom was enjoying himself, as were his hosts. But after an hour or so, he looked at his watch. ‘I must go. I should be back at the camp before it gets dark.’

‘Why? Can’t your iron stallion see in the dark?’ Kristín asked.

‘Of course it can!’ said her father. ‘It’s got that giant light on it.’

‘It probably could,’ Tom admitted.

‘Stay for supper then,’ Hálfdán said.

‘Yes, stay,’ said Kristín. ‘Siggi will be home soon; in fact, he is late. Why don’t you show Tom the farm, Dad, while I get supper ready?’

So, Hálfdán showed Tom his farm. It was indeed large and prosperous. He proudly showed off a Massey Ferguson tractor, and a gleaming black Model T, although it was clear that the farm’s horses still did most of the work and the transport. Electricity came from a little generator over a small waterfall a hundred yards up the hillside. There were barns made of turf for storing hay and sheltering animals, and even one for drying the down from the eider ducks that nested about the farm. A wooden smoking hut for salmon and lamb stood next to a small stone smithy for making and fixing tools. Chickens, geese and two sheepdogs clucked, strutted and sniffed about the farm.

About a hundred yards away, and a little up the hillside, stood the tiny church, low sunshine glinting off its white metal walls. Tom’s military eye picked it out as a good position from which to command the valley.

‘Let me show you the river.’

The Selá swayed in an easy rhythm as it passed the farm, green meadows on either side.

The water was clear, the current steady.

‘Salmon?’ Tom asked.

‘Yes,’ said the farmer. He then said another word that Tom didn’t understand, but after a couple of repetitions and rapid leafing through his dictionary, Tom realized he meant ‘trout’.

Tom peered into the water in vain. The farmer beckoned him, and together they crouched low and crept along the bank until they crawled on to a boulder and peeked over.

Sure enough, there were three lovely salmon, facing upstream, shimmering a couple of inches underwater, their tails flickering in the current.

Tom heard the sound of hooves and turned to see a small man on a horse trot up along the road from Selvík — it wasn’t exactly a trot, more the smooth rapid Icelandic gait known as a tölt.

Hálfdán waved. The man on the horse acknowledged him, dismounted and removed the saddle and bridle.

‘Siggi?’ Tom asked.

Hálfdán nodded.

‘Kristín’s husband?’

This seemed to strike Hálfdán as very funny indeed. Tom waited, feeling foolish.

‘Sigurdur is only eighteen. He is Kristín’s younger brother. I have another son who is studying abroad at the moment.’

‘Oh, I see. Where is her husband?’ Tom scanned the farm buildings.

Hálfdán stopped laughing. ‘He died. In Reykjavík. Two years ago. And then my wife died last year. So Kristín came back to Laxahóll with little Gudni.’

‘Oh, I am sorry.’ And Tom was. Any momentary relief that Kristín was unattached was quickly squashed by sympathy for the two of them. ‘It is good you can help each other.’

‘Yes,’ Hálfdán said. ‘My wife would be pleased that Kristín came back. But I worry that she is getting bored.’

The blue eyes recovered their twinkle. ‘Come in. She is a very good cook.’

Supper was cold — delicious dark red smoked lamb on rye bread with some cheese. And skyr and berries for pudding — skyr being a cross between curd cheese and yoghurt.

Siggi was small and dark but looked a strong fellow. Physically, he reminded Tom of Private Sowerby, although he was a lot less cheerful. In fact, he was a thoroughly sullen youth. Tom wasn’t impressed, and his sister and father seemed embarrassed.

‘Siggi is going to start Bretavinnan next week,’ Kristín said. ‘At the new naval base.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tom. He knew Bretavinnan meant work for the British.

Siggi didn’t seem particularly enthused by the idea.

‘It’s well paid,’ said Hálfdán. Tom managed to suppress a smile. The Icelandic labourers at the naval base had been complaining and even threatening to strike because they were being paid less than their compatriots in Reykjavík.

‘I will look out for you next time I am there,’ said Tom.

Siggi grunted.

After dinner was over, Tom once again took his leave.

‘Please come again,’ said Hálfdán.

‘Yes, do come,’ said Kristín.

‘Do you like to fish?’ Hálfdán asked.

Tom beamed. ‘Yes, I do. In fact, I recently bought myself a rod.’

‘Well, you are welcome to fish here.’

‘That is very kind,’ said Tom.

‘Shouldn’t he pay?’ said Siggi.

Hálfdán looked at his son sharply. Undercutting his father’s hospitality didn’t go down well.

But Kristín took her brother’s side. ‘Yes, absolutely he should pay. That way he can come as often as he likes.’

Hálfdán raised his eyebrows. Tom sort of followed her logic: if he paid, he wouldn’t have to wait for an invitation. That implied that Kristín wanted him to come again. More than once.

Siggi looked at her in something close to horror.

Kristín appeared momentarily confused, as if she had just said something she didn’t mean to, but then she brazened it out. She suggested a price. Tom counter-offered. There was a little haggling and then the deal was done.

Tom left the farm on his iron stallion, gingerly guiding it around the potholes in the dark until he reached the fjord. Pale moonlight laid a shimmering yellow path towards him over its deep waters. The sky above the mountains to the north was tinged with shimmering green brushstrokes of northern lights.

He realized he was grinning, and he let out a loud whoop on the empty road, just because he felt like it.