The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [179]
“Rosavin,” she exclaimed as I handed her the roses. “No one has given me flowers since Eirikur died.”
My little room waited; the table was laid. While we ate, I told her almost everything. She congratulated me on my three new cousins, although two, I explained, didn’t really count. From Berglind’s silences and Kristjana’s dismissive gestures, I had understood that they were not close to the brothers in Reykjavik. Some branches on the tree, I explained to Hallie, were less sturdy than others.
“So you have posthumous cousins,” she said, “but one good one is a lot. Did you remember your village?”
“The only thing I remembered was the kitchen floor of the house where we used to live. When I looked through the window, I remembered crawling across the linoleum.” I asked if she knew about Helgafell, and when she said yes, I described how my aunt and father had lost their wishes there and how I had too.
“When I met you,” she said, “you were wishing hard to find one relative and you found two. Maybe you got your wishes before you met the mountain.” Her bright brown eyes looked into mine as if there was something more that she wanted to say, but when she spoke again it was to suggest we try the cake.
The next morning, although it was only seven, Hallie insisted on walking me to the bus stop. “Don’t forget,” she said, “to take your ticket to my niece, Nanna. She is working today and she is anxious to know what happened on your quest.”
I promised I would. And I promised to write and tell her when I was coming to Iceland next summer. That was another thing I had discovered money could be turned into: plans. “I couldn’t have managed without you,” I said.
“I think that is true,” she said, accepting my thanks as she had the kronur I had handed her the night before. “Good luck at university, and with the people you meet. Next summer I will take you, or you will take me, to our famous hot springs.”
As the bus pulled away, she stood waving her small, gold-ringed hand. Until yesterday no one had ever waved me off on a journey. Now here was Hallie, like my aunt’s family, casting a blessing on my travels. Perhaps the curse I had carried for so long was, finally, loosening its grip.
At the airport all the desks were busy; I joined the queue at Nanna’s. I wasn’t sure she would recognise me, but when my turn came to offer my ticket and passport she said, “Hello, Scottish girl. How was your visit?”
“My visit was very good, thanks to you and Hallie.” Quickly—people were waiting—I told her that I had found my father’s family and my old home. “Could I sit by the window again?”
“It is already arranged,” she said with a smile. “Come again soon.”
In the lounge I stood looking out at the runway, the bleak lava fields, the distant mountains. Not far from Stykkisholmur, Berglind had told me, was the mountain of Snaefellsjökull, which the French writer Jules Verne had written about in Journey to the Centre of the Earth. “I did not like the story,” she had added, “but it was nice to see our mountain in a book.” I had promised to read it when I got back to Scotland.
The flight was announced, and I followed the small crowd through the doors, across the tarmac, and up the steps of the plane to my window-seat. In the row in front of me a woman and a girl sat down; their wavy hair was exactly the same shade of brown. Once again the seat next to me was empty. The day was clear and I hoped for a good view as we took off. Perhaps we would fly over the city and I would see the Hallgrimskirkja or even the little lake with the mallards. A voice said, “May I?”
Mr. Sinclair sat down beside me, fastened his seat belt, and, without another word, reached for my hand.
Only when we were safely airborne, when the roar of the engines had lessened, and we were out over the Atlantic, the city of Reykjavik and the