Far North - Michael Ridpath [97]
Sindri frowned. ‘I suppose that’s good news. Are you going to take it?’
‘I think we’ll have to,’ said Freyja. ‘It’s the only serious offer we’ve received. And it’s also the only way we have of paying off the debt.’
‘You could tell the bank to stuff it,’ said Sindri. ‘Stay on the farm. Let them try to evict you. You know how difficult the government is making it for banks to take possession of property these days.’
‘Those are just temporary measures,’ Freyja said. ‘The debt isn’t going to go away until I pay it off. This way I pay it off and we all get on with our lives.’
They sat in silence for a moment staring at their coffee. Sindri puffed at his cigarette. It was the farm of his childhood they were talking about, a property that had first been bought by his great-grandfather a century before. But that wasn’t what got to him. It was Freyja and her children. His brother Matti’s broken family.
‘So you’re moving to Reykjavík?’ he asked.
‘We’ll have to,’ said Freyja. ‘I need to work.’
‘Have you been to see your brother?’ Sindri asked, remembering that he had offered Freyja a job.
‘Yes. But nothing doing. Apparently he had to fire three people last week, so he can’t be seen to be taking someone new on. Like me.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Ask around. That’s why I’m here. Do you know anyone who might be looking to hire someone?’
‘Sorry,’ said Sindri. He didn’t have to think very hard. A number of his friends who survived from casual temporary jobs were looking. He was lucky he still had some of the royalties from his book left, and the authors’ stipend that the Ministry of Education, Science and Culture in Iceland was still paying out to writers.
‘I know I don’t have any direct qualifications,’ Freyja said. ‘But I can work hard. I’m strong. I’m good with figures. I’m honest.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Sindri, smiling. ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment. But I just don’t think there is anything out there.’
‘I could be a waitress. Shop assistant. Cleaner, even.’
‘Sorry.’ Sindri shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly the kind of guy you need to talk to about the world of work.’
‘No,’ said Freyja, and Sindri thought he caught a touch of contempt in the glance she gave him.
‘Where will you live?’
Freyja sighed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You can sleep on my floor if you like. All of you.’
Freyja laughed as she glanced around the mess and grime of the flat. ‘I hope it won’t come to that.’
The laughter died. They both knew it might.
‘Hey, I’m sorry I couldn’t buy the farm,’ Sindri said. And he meant it. He would have done if he could, it would have been the least he could do to make up for his brother’s actions. ‘I just don’t have the money.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ said Freyja. ‘Not that I’d expect you to do anything like that. But I sometimes wonder…’
‘Wonder what?’
‘What people like you do all day.’
‘I’m writing a novel,’ Sindri said. ‘It’s a reworking of Independent People by Halldór Laxness for the twenty-first century. I’m finding it kind of tough.’
‘You call that kind of tough?’ said Freyja, her eyes alight. ‘Some of us have worked all our lives. Some of us have other people to feed. I sometimes wish people like you would get up off your fat arses and do something.’
Sindri’s cheeks burned. He felt like he had been slapped. Anger fought with shame and shame won.
Freyja put her face in her hands. Sindri kept quiet. She looked up. Smiled thinly. ‘Hey, I’m sorry, Sindri. I just try so hard not to let all this get on top of me. And I succeed, really I do. I never shout at anyone, not the bank, not my kids, not even the stupid sheep. Of course the person I would really like to shout at is Matti. But I can’t do that.’
She looked Sindri straight in the eye. ‘So I shout at you. I’m sorry.’
‘I probably deserve it,’ said Sindri. He reached over and touched her hand. ‘I’ll keep my ears open. There’s a chance I might hear something about somewhere cheap to live.’
‘Thanks,’ said Freyja. ‘Anyway, I must go. I’m talking to everyone I know