The Quarry töq-3

by Johan Theorin

  It could have been her father sitting there – but of course Henry had always been too restless to sit in the garden.

  Vendela thought the man was asleep, but as she stopped by the gate he raised his head and looked at her.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’ she called out.

  ‘No more than anybody else,’ replied the man, tucking the book beneath the blanket.

  He had a quiet yet powerful voice, the voice of someone who was used to being in charge. A bit like Max.

  The tablets made Vendela more courageous than usual; she opened the gate and went in.

  ‘I’m sitting here looking for butterflies,’ said the man as she walked towards him. ‘And thinking.’

  It wasn’t a joke, but Vendela still laughed – and regretted it immediately.

  ‘I’m Vendela,’ she said quickly. ‘Vendela Larsson.’

  ‘And my name is Davidsson, Gerlof Davidsson.’

  An unusual name. Vendela didn’t think she’d come across it before.

  ‘Gerlof … is that German?’

  ‘I think it was Dutch originally. It’s an old family name.’

  ‘Do you live here all year round, Gerlof?’

  ‘I do now. I suppose I’ll be here until they carry me out feet first.’

  Vendela laughed again. ‘In that case we’ll be neighbours.’ She pointed back the way she’d come, trying to keep her hand steady. ‘We’ve just moved in over by the quarry, my husband Max and I. We’ll be living here.’

  ‘I see,’ said Gerlof. ‘But only when the weather’s warm. Not all year round.’

  It wasn’t a question.

  ‘No, not all year round … just in spring and summer.’

  She was going to add thank God, but stopped herself. It probably wasn’t very polite to mention that it was too cold and desolate to live on the island in the middle of winter. She’d done it when she was little, and that was quite enough.

  Neither of them spoke. There were no butterflies to be seen, but the birds were still singing in the bushes. Vendela closed her eyes and wondered if their nervous twittering was a warning of some kind.

  ‘Have you settled in?’ asked Gerlof.

  Vendela looked up and nodded energetically. ‘Absolutely, I mean it’s so …’ She searched for the right thing to say, ‘… so close to the shore.’

  The old man didn’t speak, so Vendela took a deep breath and went on: ‘We were thinking of having a little get-together for everybody in the village. This Wednesday at seven, we thought … It would be nice if you could join us.’

  Gerlof looked down at his legs. ‘I’ll come if I can move … it varies from day to day.’

  ‘Good, excellent.’

  Vendela laughed nervously once more and walked back towards the gate. She was hungry now, and the new tablets were making her feel sleepy. But it felt good to be moving across the grass, drifting along like an elf towards the wind and the white sun.

  ‘Max? Hello?’

  Vendela was back home, her voice echoing across the stone floor. There was no reply, but she was so excited by her encounter with Gerlof that she simply carried on calling out, ‘I met this man, an old villager … he’s just fantastic! He lives in a little cottage on the other side of the track. I invited him to our party!’

  There was silence for a few seconds, then Max opened the door of his thinking room. He looked at his wife for a few seconds, then asked, ‘What have you taken?’

  Vendela met his gaze and straightened up. ‘Nothing … Just a couple of slimming pills.’

  ‘Nothing to perk you up a bit?’

  ‘No! I’ve just got spring fever, what’s wrong with that?’

  She wanted to turn and walk away, but remained where she was, shaking her head. She tried to stand up straight without swaying, even though the stone floor was moving slightly beneath her feet.

  ‘Vendela, you were going to cut the dose when we came here. You promised.’

  ‘I know! And I’m going to go jogging.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Max. ‘It’s better than pills.’

  ‘I’m just feeling really happy,’ Vendela went on, keeping her tone as serious as she could, ‘but it’s nothing to do with any pills. I’m happy because spring is in the air, and because I met this wonderful old man …’

  ‘Yes, well, you always did like old folk.’ Max rubbed his eyes and turned back to his thinking room. ‘I must get back to work.’

  10

  The smell of limestone and seaweed, sea and coast. The wind over the shore, the sun shining on the sound, winter and spring meeting in the air above the island.

  It was Sunday morning, and Per was standing out on the patio with a broom, wishing that the spring sunshine could reach into all the dark corners of his body. Ernst had built two stone patios along the front and back of the house, one facing south-east and the other north-west, which was clever, because you could either follow the sun from morning until evening, or sit in the shade all day.

  He straightened his back and looked out over the rocky shoreline. He knew he should feel happier to be standing here by the sea than he actually did. He wanted to feel peaceful and calm, but his anxiety about Nilla was too strong. Anxiety about what the doctors would find.

  There wasn’t much he could do about it; he just had to keep going.

  The old patio was made of limestone; it was uneven and full of weeds growing between the slabs, but it was sturdily built. Once Per had swept all the leaves away, he walked to the edge and looked down into the quarry. Nothing was moving, and the stone steps they had built yesterday stood firm, halfway up the rock face. Then he looked over at the new houses to the south, thinking about the new neighbours and their money.

  It was certainly worth thinking about. He estimated that the two plots and the houses on them must have cost a couple of million, at least. Perhaps even three, including all the overheads. His new neighbours weren’t short of money, and that was really all he knew about them.

  Time to get out Ernst’s garden furniture. It was made of cane, like something you might find on a plantation veranda in the jungle.

  The telephone in the kitchen started ringing as he was standing in the doorway with the first chair in his hands.

  ‘Jesper?’ he shouted. ‘Can you get that?’

  He didn’t know where his son was, but there was no response.

  The telephone rang again, and after the fourth ring he put the chair down and went to answer it.

  ‘Per Mörner.’

  ‘Hello?’ said a slurred voice. ‘Pelle?’

  It was his father again, of course. Per closed his eyes wearily and thought that Jerry could have afforded to build one of those luxury villas by the quarry. Well, ten or fifteen years ago, anyway. But Per had never seen any of his money, and since the stroke Jerry’s finances were uncertain, to say the least. He was no longer able to work.

  ‘Where are you calling from, Jerry? Where are you?’

  There was a hissing noise on the line before the answer came: ‘Ryd.’

  ‘OK, so you’ve arrived. You were going to go up to the studio, weren’t you?’

  ‘To see Bremer,’ said Jerry.

  ‘I understand. You’re at Bremer’s now.’

  But Jerry hesitated, and Per went on, ‘Haven’t you seen Hans Bremer? Wasn’t he going to pick you up?’

  ‘Not here.’

  Per wondered if Jerry was drunk and confused, or merely confused.

  ‘Go home then, Jerry,’ he said firmly. ‘Go the station and hop on the next bus back to Kristianstad.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Yes you can, Jerry. Off you go.’

  There was a silence once more. ‘Fetch me, Pelle?’

  Per hesitated. ‘No. It’s impossible.’

  Silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Pelle … Pelle?’

  Per clutched the receiver more tightly. ‘I haven’t got time, Jerry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got Jesper here, and Nilla will be coming soon … I have to check wit
h them first.’

  But his father had put the phone down.

  Per knew where the village of Ryd was. Two hours by car – that was how long it would take from Öland. Too long, really. But the conversation with Jerry had left him uneasy.

  Keep an eye on him, his mother had once said.

  Anita had never referred to her ex-husband by name. And it was Per who had kept in touch with Jerry and told her what he was up to, year after year. The trips he had made, the women he had met. It was an obligation he had never asked for.

  He had promised Anita that he would keep an eye on Jerry. But the promise had been made on certain conditions, one of which was that he never saw his father alone.

  Per decided: he would go down to Ryd.

  Jesper could stay here. He and Nilla had only met their grandfather on a handful of occasions, for a few hours each time, and that was no doubt for the best.

  Not letting his children associate with Jerry had been one of Per’s best decisions.

  11

  Vendela quickly realized that her curiosity about their new neighbours in the village was not mutual.

  When she went round to invite people to the party, she started by trying to find houses in the rest of the village that were actually inhabited. It was hopeless. She walked along the coast road that swept around the deep inlet, but didn’t see a soul. There was nothing but closed-up houses with shutters covering the windows – and when she rang the bell at those without shutters, no one answered. From time to time she got the feeling that somebody was at home, but didn’t want to show themselves.

  It wasn’t until she reached the southern end of the village and knocked on the door of the little house next to the kiosk that somebody answered. A short, white-haired man with sooty hands, as if he were busy with a chimney or a boat engine. Vendela decided not to shake hands.

  ‘Hagman, John Hagman,’ he said when she introduced herself.

  When she told him about the party, he merely nodded. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘So you live up by the quarry?’

  ‘That’s right, we’ve—’

  ‘Do you need any help in the garden? I can dig and weed and rake. I can do most things.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ said Vendela with a laugh. ‘That might be just what we need.’

  Hagman nodded and closed the door.

  Vendela looked around and thought that John Hagman ought to take care of his own garden first. It had grown wild.

  She headed north again, back towards the quarry, with a faint yearning for her medicine cabinet. But she wouldn’t open it today.

  She turned off towards the neighbours’ house. It was about the same size as theirs, but the walls were made of pale wood, and the windows were tall and narrow. The garden looked closer to being finished than theirs too; fresh topsoil had been spread and raked where the lawn was to be, and someone had found the time to sow grass seed.

  The owners were at home. A youngish woman in blue dungarees opened the door when Vendela rang the bell. She had short blonde hair and greeted Vendela politely, but, just like John Hagman, she didn’t seem particularly pleased to have a visitor.

  The woman’s name was Kurdin, Vendela learned. Marie Kurdin.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’ she said with a nervous laugh.

  ‘No, but I was working on a wall.’

  ‘Are you wallpapering?’ asked Vendela.

  ‘Painting.’

  As Vendela asked her to the party, Marie Kurdin’s mind seemed to be elsewhere, perhaps on her drying paint.

  ‘Fine,’ she said quietly, her tone neither friendly nor unfriendly. ‘Christer and I and little Paul will be there; we’ll bring some wine.’

  ‘Excellent. Look forward to seeing you.’

  Vendela turned away, feeling as if she’d failed. Not that there had been anything wrong or embarrassing about the conversation, but she had hoped to be made more welcome. At times like these she longed more than ever to be out on the alvar – just to head out there. To the elf stone, in spite of everything that had happened there.

  But she forced herself to stay, and walked over to the last house by the quarry. The little cottage at the northern end. The Saab was parked outside, and Vendela stopped, wondering if she really ought to knock on the door. In the end she did.

  The door was opened immediately by the man who had been driving the car, the man who had flattened Max. He looked more friendly now.

  ‘Hi there,’ said Vendela.

  ‘Hi,’ said the man.

  She held out her hand and introduced herself, and found out that the man was called Per Mörner. She laughed nervously. ‘I just want to explain something about that business in the car park, my husband got a bit—’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Per Mörner. ‘We were all a bit worked up.’

  He stopped speaking, so Vendela went on: ‘I’m just going round saying hello to people.’ She laughed again. ‘I mean, somebody has to make a start.’

  Per just nodded.

  ‘And I had an idea,’ said Vendela. ‘I thought we could have a bit of a get-together.’

  ‘Right … when were you thinking of?’

  ‘Wednesday,’ said Vendela. ‘Would that be OK for you and your wife?’

  ‘That’s fine, but I don’t have a wife. Just two children.’

  ‘Oh, I see … Are you around on Wednesday?’

  Per nodded. ‘I have to go to the mainland now, just for the day. My son Jesper will be staying here. Do you want us to bring something?’

  Vendela shook her head. ‘No, we’ll provide the food, but feel free to bring something to drink.’

  Per Mörner nodded, but didn’t seem to be looking forward to the party.

  Perhaps he hadn’t forgotten the quarrel with Max, whatever he might say. Or maybe he just had other things on his mind.

  When Vendela got home, Aloysius had settled in his basket again. She stroked his back quickly and went into the living room to carry on writing in her notebook.

  Max was out at the back of the house, dressed in a country-style tweed suit. A photographer had come over from Kalmar that morning and was staying for a couple of days to take pictures of Max for the cookery book – which had now acquired the title Good Food to the Max – and Vendela had helped groom her husband.

  Before she had time to start writing, the outside door suddenly flew open and the young photographer dashed into the hallway. He seemed excited and went over to his camera bag in the kitchen, with only a passing glance at Vendela.

  ‘Need my wide-angle lens.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Max has killed a snake!’

  She watched him disappear from the kitchen and remained sitting in her armchair for a few seconds before she got up. Behind her Aloysius sat up in his basket and whined at her, but she didn’t have time to attend to him now.

  She went outside into the cold.

  The sun was shining over the flattened-down earth in the garden. Max was standing by the old stone wall with a spade in his hand, studying something that was lying on it.

  Vendela moved slowly towards him. It was a snake with black diamond-shaped markings – an adder. She couldn’t see the head, because the slender body had twisted itself into a large, shapeless knot, and seemed to be trying to tie itself even tighter.

  ‘It was lying here in the sun when I came over to stand by the wall with the spade,’ said Max as she reached him. ‘It tried to crawl under a stone when it saw me, but I got it.’

  ‘Max,’ said Vendela quietly, ‘you do know that adders are protected?’

  ‘Are they?’ He smiled at her. ‘No, I didn’t know that. Neither did the snake, eh?’

  Vendela just shook her head. ‘It’s still alive,’ she said. ‘It’s moving.’

  ‘Muscle memory,’ said Max. ‘I smashed its head with the spade. It’s just that the body hasn’t caught on yet.’

  She didn’t answer, but she was thinking about her father, who had warned her about killing adders when she was little. T
hey weren’t protected in those days, but they were magical creatures.

  Particularly the black ones – killing a black adder meant a violent death for the person who committed the deed.

  At least the one Max had killed was grey.

  ‘We must bury it,’ she said.

  ‘No chance,’ said Max. ‘I’ll chuck it away, and the gulls can take care of the body.’

  He went towards the quarry with the spade held out in front of him.

  ‘Just one picture!’

  The photographer had his camera at the ready now. He started clicking away with Max posing happily, smiling broadly as he displayed his prize on the spade.

  ‘Fantastic!’ shouted the photographer.

  Max went round to the front of the house with the adder. When he reached the edge of the quarry he gave the spade a flick, and the snake’s body flew through the air like the punctured inner tube of a bicycle tyre.

  ‘There!’

  The snake had landed at the bottom of the quarry, but Vendela could see that it was still struggling and writhing in the limestone dust. It made her think of her father, who had always come home from the quarry with white dust all over his clothes and his cap.

  The photographer walked to the edge of the quarry and took a few final pictures of the snake’s body.

  Vendela looked at him. ‘Are those going in the cookery book?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘if they turn out well.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Snakes aren’t food.’

  Vendela decided never to go down into the quarry. Never, right through the spring. The alvar was her world.

  12

  Gerlof received two visits every day. They were both from the home-care service, and although a temporary helper sometimes turned up, it was usually Agnes who brought him a meal at half past eleven, and her colleague Madeleine who came at around eight in the evening to assess his chances of surviving the night. At least, that’s what Gerlof assumed she was there for.