The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [172]
She laughed. “We will have lessons to say your name. Do you remember me?”
I shook my head. “I don’t remember you, or my aunt, or my parents. I hoped that coming here would bring back memories but it hasn’t, so far.”
“Perhaps you remember,” said Berglind, “but not in your brain. Will you ride?”
I refused as politely as I could and she said we would all three walk. She picked up my suitcase and, calling to Isolfur, not bothering to hold his reins, set off. I have a cousin, I thought, who acts like Pippi Longstocking. Loping along beside her, I asked how old she was. Twenty-six. Did she have brothers or sisters? Two brothers who worked in Reykjavik. Did she remember my parents? Yes, she used to go sailing with them on calm days.
“Your mother had very blue eyes,” she said, “and she could touch her nose with her tongue. Can you?”
“I don’t think so. Do you remember other things about her?”
Berglind swung my suitcase. “Come on, Isolfur,” she called over her shoulder. “She made English custard from a tin. I can smell it. She had a book of empty pages, and she drew birds and plants and fish. She had a blue dress she liked. Once I spilled juice on the skirt and she said it was all right. She and I taught you to walk—you walked from her to me, and back again. I see you have not forgotten your skill.”
I laughed, delighted by both the fact and her phrasing. “You speak such good English.”
“Your mother was my first teacher. Then I studied at school. Now I have the radio. I am happy to practise on you. We do not get many visitors in Stykkisholmur.”
“I hope it’s not rude to ask, but why is your mother blind? Was she in an accident?”
“No. It happened over a few months. Our neighbours say it is because she sees other things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Weather. People. Last week she told me we would meet a new relative soon.”
So, even before I had visited Archie and stolen the money, my aunt had known I was coming. I was still grappling with this news when Berglind pointed out a house. “Where we live. And those”—she indicated two brown ponies grazing nearby—“are Isolfur’s brothers.”
“Do you live here too?”
“My husband and I both.” Then she looked over at me. “Sorry. I forget you have no parents to live with. Maybe that is why you are so small.”
Inside the house a woman wearing a white blouse and faded blue trousers set aside her knitting and rose to meet me. “Welcome, Fjola,” she said. “I am your aunt Kristjana.”
She too wore her hair in a single braid that hung almost to her waist. She stepped forward, holding out her hand. I stared at her wonderingly. Beneath her unlined forehead, her pale blue eyes were very still. Ignoring her hand, I reached to hug her. She smelled of soap and of something that reminded me of the sea.
The phrases she uttered when we met turned out to be Kristjana’s entire stock of English; Berglind had taught them to her that morning. As for my uncle Ulfur—his name meant wolf—and Berglind’s husband, Gisli, they both knew only hallo, which was the same in Icelandic. The men worked together, repairing boats. They came home at six, and we ate lamb stew at the kitchen table. When Berglind was not translating, I looked around and saw that the hems of the curtains were frayed, the table scarred, the plates and cutlery well used. My aunt and her family did not have much money.
After supper we went for a walk. Kristjana, arm in arm with Ulfur, gave directions as we made our way along the hilly, winding, unpaved roads. She pointed out the cottage where she and my father had grown up, the school they had attended, the mooring where their father—he fished for scallops and herring—had kept his boat. As we stood looking at the harbour, two eider ducks swam by. I was about to ask Berglind their Icelandic name when a dark head surfaced.
“Oh, you have seals,” I said.
“We do,” said Berglind. “People are cross—they eat many fish—but I don’t care. Your mother used to say if I was a good girl I could ride a seal all the way to Scotland.”
She waved to the seal, just as I had done months ago on the causeway, and,