The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [177]
“Then one day, soon after she became pregnant, I told her what I’d seen.”
“What did she say?” I couldn’t imagine the bewildering conversation.
“She was angry, and she was frightened.” My aunt pressed her hands to her temples, as if the memory still pained her. “She made me promise not to tell Einar, but I think that was why she went back to Scotland for your birth, and why she made your uncle promise to take care of you if anything happened. What I described, her pleasure in Iceland, that was true, but her pleasure grew less after I spoke.”
“What about my father?”
“Did I see his death? Happily, no. I was able to enjoy his company until the last day of his life. I never see things about my close family. I see nothing for Berglind or her brothers, or Ulfur.”
“And,” I had to ask, “what about for me?”
Kristjana lowered her hands and leaned slightly forward. “I do not need to see the future to know that you are a very determined person. Your determination will bear fruit. Now the second thing.”
Gradually, as I heard her begin sentences, break them off, begin again, it dawned on me that my aunt was embarrassed. My parents, she said, had owned their house, and when my father died, I had inherited it. After many delays it had been sold, the mortgage had been paid off, and the rest of the money put in a bank account for me.
“But why didn’t anyone tell me?” I thought of all the times when even a small amount of money would have made a large difference.
“Two reasons,” said my aunt, “neither pretty. I wrote to your uncle with Berglind’s help—it was more than four years later—and he wrote back saying it would be better to keep the money here for you until you were of age. He gave me your Scottish name for the bank. Any money, he said, might make war with your aunt. We wrote again when you became eighteen to the address we had, but no letter came back.”
Yet another of my aunt’s betrayals. Even as I opened my mouth to denounce her, Isolfur, or one of his brothers, neighed, and in the few seconds that followed I suddenly knew, as clearly as if I were standing in Edinburgh, the answer to the question I had pondered at Hallie’s. My anger was too late; there was a new grave beside my uncle’s and his brother’s. “I’m sorry,” I said. “And the second reason?”
Kristjana turned towards the window where the sun was still high above the rooftop of their nearest neighbour. “Our life here is not easy. One winter Ulfur broke his arm and could not work. And you see how it is with me. Besides my knitting I can do nothing that makes money. I borrowed from you—nearly seventy thousand kronur—and I have never been able to pay it back. I am most sorry.”
Beneath Berglind’s wide-eyed gaze I jumped up and kissed my aunt. The idea of being owed money by someone I loved was almost better than the idea of owning money.
The next morning all four of them came to see me off on the bus back to Reykjavik. My hand disappeared into first Ulfur’s, then Gisli’s large grasp. Berglind lifted me up and swung me round. “One summer Gisli and I will come to see you in Scotland,” she said. “And you must come here. We will sail out to Flatey and visit the birds.”
“I would like that,” I said. “Please translate one more time.”
I turned to my aunt. “Since my uncle died I’ve been a friend, a pupil, a maid, an au pair, but I’ve never had a family. Thank you for making me feel like a daughter again, and a niece, and a cousin.”
Kristjana smiled and touched my cheek. “Berglind and Ulfur say you have your father’s nose,” she said. “And we all say you have your mother’s spirit. Come and see us again soon, Fjola. Listen to the voice of Helgafell.”
They stood waving as the bus pulled away. Only when they were out of sight and we hit the first pothole did I understand how she had dodged my question of the night before. She had foreseen my arrival; she knew about the voice on the wind.
chapter thirty-three
Besides the black stone and the scallop shells, and the photograph of my parents, I