The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [174]
A ghost sister, or brother, touched my shoulder.
Patiently Kristjana and Berglind answered my questions. My mother had never learned to knit, she liked jokes, she waved her arms when she spoke Icelandic, once when she came across a dead fish she had stopped to draw it, she liked dancing, she played hide-and-seek with Berglind and her brothers, she wasn’t shy but she could happily spend entire days alone, she was always interested in the sky.
“Did she believe in God?” I asked.
Kristjana’s eyebrows rose. “I am not sure I know the answer. We all pretend to be Christians, go to church, say our prayers. My guess is she believed in some god or goddess who lived in waves and clouds and other people.”
“Do you believe in God?” Berglind asked.
“I used to, until my uncle drowned.”
“But don’t you think”—Kristjana touched the table, the wall—“that there has to be a reason why there is something, rather than nothing?”
“No,” I said. “I think some things just are, like puffins and volcanoes, and then humans invent other things.” I told them the story I remembered from long ago about the snow being who visited people’s houses when something bad was going to happen.
“So only in winter,” said Kristjana thoughtfully. “I have never heard of that. Perhaps it was a story your father made only for you. Now Berglind will show you the photographs we have of Einar.”
On the table Berglind spread out half-a-dozen photographs: my aunt and my father in my grandfather’s boat, both wearing shorts; my grandparents and the two children on a picnic; my father playing with a black and white dog, standing beside a bus, in the prow of a boat; my father and my mother in the doorway of a small, white house, my mother holding an alert baby with wispy dark hair. I stared in wonder at this last, my father’s boyish face, his arm around my mother, her arms around me.
As if she could see my expression Kristjana said, “You must have the one of your parents together but I would like to keep the younger ones. I know it’s foolish but sometimes I hold them. I am glad to have Einar close at hand.”
I thanked her as best I could. Then I went to my suitcase and took out the photograph I had taken from Archie’s bookshelf. Here was its rightful place. Berglind described it to her mother—I heard her say Fjola several times—and they agreed that the Scottish cousin would have a place of honour on the mantelpiece.
When Ulfur came home, Berglind borrowed his van. She drove her mother and me to the outskirts of the village and down a track to the cove where my parents had lived. The sky was overcast, and we parked above the small jetty. Nearby was a beach covered in small black stones. Not far away was another beach pink with scallop shells. This was where my father had kept his boat in bad weather; this was where my parents had walked and I had played. Berglind led the way to a small white house with a red roof. I recognised it but only from the photograph they had shown me. The memory I had had of my uncle rolling balls across the grass must have come not from my own eyes but from his stories. By the front door were a clump of pansies and a tangled wild rose.
“My mother says,” said Berglind, “that it looks much the same as when your parents lived here but sadder.”
How did she know? I wondered. “Who lives here now?” I said.
“A stranger. The uncle of a woman who works at the fish market.”
Remembering Hallie’s question, I asked if my parents had owned the house.
“Ah,” said Berglind, “you are thinking about money. Perhaps you are really an heiress.” She smiled at me.
“No,” I said crossly. “I didn’t come here for money. My plane ticket cost more than I earn in six months. But I have nothing from my parents. Of course I wonder what became of their things.”
Kristjana tugged her daughter’s sleeve. Berglind translated and then turned back to me. “I am sorry. Blame the radio. What I said sounded rude but by mistake.”
Her wide eyes regarded