The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [178]
“A minute,” she said. “Please.”
“Takk fyrir,” I said as she disappeared into a back office.
She returned accompanied by a plump, cheerful-looking man wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Can I be of service?”
“You’re from Scotland,” I exclaimed. His accent was much stronger than mine.
“No,” he said, sounding pleased, “but I studied at Edinburgh University for three years. How can I help?”
I explained about the account, that it had money, that the money was mine, and that I hoped to take it back to Scotland. To my amazement he nodded as if this were all quite ordinary. Did I want cash, in which case he would have to give me kronur? Or would I prefer a cheque, which could be in pounds?
Although I had often seen Marian write a cheque, I was still not entirely sure how they worked. I said that I wanted the money to be safe. “If I fall through the ice,” I joked, “or if someone steals my bag, I don’t want to be penniless.”
“The cheque isn’t the money,” he assured me. “It’s the key to the door where the money is kept, and that key can only be used by you. Even if someone else gets hold of it, it won’t turn.”
Kristjana hadn’t said how much money was in the account, and while I waited I made a bargain with myself that, whatever the sum, I would not be disappointed. If there was enough to pay back the MacGillvarys and buy books for the first term of university, that would be wonderful. If there was more, enough, say, for a new winter coat and some boots, that would be even more wonderful. I could buy Robin a book about birds and get Marian the new kettle she’d said several times that we needed.
“Here,” the man said, sitting down beside me, holding out a rectangular piece of blue paper, “this is your name. This is your passport number, for extra security. And here”—he set some notes on the table beside me—“is the extra money in kronur. Four thousand pounds is what you Scots call a nice round sum. After the fees, that left eighteen hundred kronur.” He fanned out the brightly coloured notes. “I hope you can use it.”
“Four thousand pounds,” I whispered. “Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake?”
“No. We are a very careful bank. The account has been gaining interest every year; little by little it grows. There has only been one withdrawal since it was opened.”
I took the cheque—my parents’ house, my father’s boat turned into a piece of paper too small even to make a paper boat—and put it carefully in my purse. Then he held out another sheet of paper and said here was the name and address of the bank, my account number, and his name. “If you fall through the ice, write, and I will rescue you. When you return to Scotland go to a bank—there is a nice one in Edinburgh in St. Andrews Square—and open an account. Your money will be safe, with a view of the castle, and you can get it whenever you want.”
If I had been Berglind, I would have lifted him into the air and carried him round the room. As it was I kissed him. “Oh, my goodness,” he said. He took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. Then I asked if he could direct me to a shop where I could buy flowers. He walked me to the door and pointed, diagonally, across the street.
For the next half-hour I wandered in and out of shops, studying cakes and caviar, leather belts and jewellery, sweaters and scarves. Finally I chose a dozen deep red roses, a jar of caviar, a cake, and four jars of jam for Hallie’s neighbours.