Far North - Michael Ridpath [52]
‘Who the fuck are you?’ the voice shouted. ‘Are you shagging my mum? I want to speak to her!’
‘One moment.’ He put his hand over his phone. ‘Sharon? It’s your son.’
Sharon opened her eyes. ‘You know what? Tell him I’ll talk to him in the morning.’ She closed her eyes again.
‘Night, night, Charlie,’ Magnus said. ‘Sleep well.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
May 1940
THE SUN WAS shining over Ólafsvík as Benedikt rode Skjona out of the town back towards Hraun. He had been representing his family at his cousin Thorgils’s confirmation – his mother couldn’t afford to spend the time away from the farm.
The talk in Ólafsvík had been all about the invasion of Iceland the previous week by the British. Opinion was divided. Some people thought it was better to be invaded by the British than the Germans. Others saw no reason why Iceland couldn’t be left alone, they had no part in a war fought on a continent a thousand kilometres away. But everyone was hoping for a boom to match that of the Kaiser’s war. Fish, wool and lamb prices were already rising, and people thought that with the British around, Icelandic exports would be protected.
Of course no one had actually seen a British soldier. They were all two hundred kilometres away in Reykjavík. Benedikt smiled to himself. He could imagine Hallgrímur preparing himself to fight off any British invaders that tried to cross the lava field to Bjarnarhöfn.
Hallgrímur and Benedikt, now aged sixteen and fourteen, barely spoke any more. They were polite to each other, especially in front of others from their respective families, but they had stopped playing together that winter. Gunnar, Hallgrímur’s father, was a frequent visitor to Hraun. He was a good neighbour to Benedikt’s mother, in particular helping fix things around the farm. He was careful to teach Benedikt while he worked. Benedikt hated these times. He knew that there were a lot of important skills he could learn from Gunnar, but he could not bear to treat his neighbour like a helpful uncle.
He preferred talking to Hallgrímur’s mother, but she was much less often seen at Hraun.
Benedikt rode Skjona down to the beach, and set off at a gallop. Horse and rider thrilled as they splashed through the surf and the black sand. A few kilometres in front of them rose Búland’s Head, a massive shoulder of rock and grass that jutted out into the sea. A broad cloud draped the top of the mountain, and seemed to be slipping down towards the water.
Benedikt rode back to the road and the bridge over the River Fródá. This was where Thurídur had lived, the beautiful woman whom Björn of Breidavík had wooed a thousand years before. The same Björn who had defied the great chieftain Snorri, and who had ended up in America amongst the Skraelings.
But Benedikt’s father hadn’t escaped. He was still lying at the bottom of Swine Lake, or at least his bones were.
And neither Benedikt nor Hallgrímur had told anyone what they had heard that day.
Benedikt knew that his father had been wrong to betray his mother, but he didn’t hold that against him. His mother had been robbed of her husband, which was much worse. She was a tough woman, and she had coped well. Widowhood was common in Iceland, many husbands lost their lives at sea, a few on the fells. There were four children and Benedikt and Hildur, his elder sister, had done all they could to help her. But Benedikt was not a natural farmer like Hallgrímur, or like his father.
It was all Gunnar’s fault.
It was funny, for the couple of days that he had been staying with his aunt and uncle in Ólafsvík, he had forgotten about Gunnar. The rage, which constantly seemed to be churning within his breast, had disappeared.
But now, seeing the River Fródá, the scene of that other seduction so many centuries ago, it had returned.
He felt apprehensive as he began to climb the path up the edge of Búland’s Head. The sunshine was behind him now, and the base of the cloud only a few metres above.
He remembered the first time he had ridden that path around Búland’s Head. It had been with his father,