The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [167]
“Who is this person to you?” said the woman.
“My father. He died in 1951. I’ve never heard his name before.”
“So you look for your family as well as his. But go. The bus is soon. Good luck. When you fly home, stop and tell me what happens.”
I promised I would. Outside, the bus was waiting. I fumbled over my money until the driver plucked out a note and gave me a ticket.
Iceland, Iceland, Iceland, I kept thinking. Through the windows of the bus the landscape looked very old, but I knew from my reading that it was the other way round: geologically Iceland was a young country. The soft hills near Claypoole were old volcanoes; these jagged mountains were new ones. We passed mile after empty mile of the black rocks I had seen from the air. Lava, I guessed. Once I saw a herd of brown ponies. Was this the country my mother had fallen in love with? Then, almost suddenly, we were in a town, a city. An odd rippling church spire rose above the brightly coloured houses. At last there were trees.
When I got off the bus, the driver looked at my map and, after a brief consultation with another passenger, pointed me across the square. With two wrong turns I made my way to a quiet street lined with houses. Number eleven was much smaller than its neighbours; with its walls of green corrugated iron and its red corrugated roof, it reminded me of a garden shed. Lace curtains hung in the two front windows, and along one window-sill stood half-a-dozen cacti. The sight of these last gave me the courage to knock. Almost at once I heard firm footsteps. The door opened and a pair of bright brown eyes stared at me alertly. The owner of these eyes was an inch or two shorter than me and wore a black dress, with a cream-coloured cardigan over her shoulders. Around her neck hung a pendant with a bright red stone. She held out a hand with a ring on every finger.
“Welcome, Scottish girl. I am Hallie, short for Hallgerd.” Her cheeks, when she smiled, pleated into many tiny lines.
I told her my name was Gemma.
She led me to a small plain room with five pieces of furniture: a narrow white bed, a chair, a bedside table with a lamp, and a low chest. The window was the one without the cacti, looking out onto the street.
“Don’t worry,” Hallie said. “You will sleep well.” She waved her hand, as if casting a spell. “Rest now. Supper will be in one hour.”
I had planned to begin my quest immediately, perhaps question a few people in the neighbouring streets, but at her words I realised how tired I was. I lay down, pressed my cheek to the plump pillow, and closed my eyes.
I woke to Hallie calling, “Supper. Five minutes.” In the bathroom across the hall I studied my reflection as I washed my hands and brushed my hair. If I was on the other side of the mirror, then I must be on this side too, here, at last, in Iceland. When I stepped into the sitting-room, a table beside the window was laid for supper. Hallie insisted that I sit while she brought in some kind of meat, peas, and potatoes. “Simple food,” she said.
For several minutes all I did was eat. Meanwhile she told me she had grown up in the village of Kirkjubaejarklaustur, a place famous for disaster. In 1783 a volcano had erupted nearby at Lakagigar. While the lava flowed towards their houses, the villagers had gathered in the church to listen to the minister deliver what came to be known as the Fire Sermon. Miraculously, the lava had stopped short of the village.
“But his preaching did not stop the volcano,” said Hallie. “It erupted for eight months. Almost a quarter of the people in Iceland died and many, many animals. The sulphur turned their feet yellow, poor things. Even faraway places, like England and France, had clouds of ash. Iceland has many volcanoes. Did you see the lava on the way from the airport?”
“Yes,” I said, pleased to have my guess confirmed.
When she grew up, Hallie continued, she had moved to Reykjavik to study, and there met her husband.