‘Why would anyone remove crosses from graves and throw them out here?’ Katrín couldn’t take her eyes off the weathered wood and peeling white paint.
‘I agree.’ Líf was standing in the corner, as far from the table as possible. Her arms were crossed on her chest and her face was full of displeasure at Katrín’s discovery. At her feet lay Putti, sound asleep after his meal of liverwurst and assorted other delicacies. Now and again he twitched, as if involved in some great adventure in dreamland. ‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘Shouldn’t we be asking why a child and a woman, maybe its mother, would have been buried here behind the house? I find that much more difficult to comprehend than the fact that the crosses were thrown out there. And they would have been in a much worse state if they’d been left there untouched for more than half a century. Someone must have maintained them over the years, yet this house has been more or less empty.’ Garðar read the faint inscription on the bronze plates attached to the crosses: ‘“Hugi b. 1946 – d. 1951” and “Bergdís b. 1919 – d. 1951”.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Forget this. Let’s put the crosses back where we found them and ask someone who might know something about it when we’re back in Ísafjörður. It’s my guess that headstones replaced the crosses and whoever was responsible was uncomfortable about getting rid of them. Whether that person or those persons had ties to this house, I have no idea, but there’s no reason to make a big deal out of it.’
Katrín gnawed her upper lip thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, maybe.’ She stared out through the dirty kitchen window. ‘I can’t do anything about it, but it still makes me feel uncomfortable. Even though you might think it’s silly, there’s something unnatural about this. I had a very strong feeling that something bad was going on here when I saw the crosses poking up out of the weeds. That’s how they were, not just thrown haphazardly into the hollow.’
‘But why?’ Líf pressed herself back even further into the corner. ‘I’m absolutely certain those people are buried there.’
‘I have no idea how they got there, but if I were going to bury just one person, let alone two, on this site, I’d choose flat ground over that hollow. Maybe whoever it was wanted to hide the graves.’ Katrín was unhappy with how whiny she sounded.
‘And then put crosses on them?’ Garðar gave her a tired smile. ‘Believe me, these crosses come from somewhere else. There are no graves in that depression.’
‘Should we try digging a bit?’ Katrín looked at Garðar, hoping he would say no. She didn’t want to find coffins or skeletons a mere hundred metres from the house. ‘Maybe the graves are somewhere else around here.’
‘We should check it out. If there are graves here, I’m off.’ Líf’s voice grew more agitated with each word. Her reaction had surprised Katrín, because even though Líf was generally highly strung, she was never this much of a nervous wreck. Maybe it was too soon after Einar’s death for her to tolerate hearing about people dying in strange circumstances. ‘I’ll swim if I have to.’
‘That’s enough nonsense.’ Garðar bristled. ‘No one’s going anywhere and we’re not searching for graves around the house. Do you really want me to start digging the place up?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but added: ‘No way. Firstly, we won’t find anything, and secondly, we’d end up wasting all our time on it.’ He stood up, grimacing slightly. ‘Things are going to go slowly enough after that bloody hike – my legs are killing me.’ He moved over to the wall by the door and stretched one calf muscle. ‘We’ve got to work hard if we want to get things finished on time. And that’s hardly going to happen if I’m limping around out there with stiff muscles and blisters, searching for old graves with you screaming over my shoulder every time my shovel hits a rock.’
Katrín knew he was right, though he could have worded it more tactfully. But she refrained from pointing out his lack of tact; the last thing they needed in this lonely place was to end up pissed off with each other. ‘Okay. But it’s pretty strange, you must admit.’
‘Strange? It’s not just strange,’ cried Líf. ‘It’s weird.’ She seemed to regret her choice of words and hurriedly added: ‘Was the guy who owned the house not quite right in the head? Can we expect more of this kind of thing?’
Garðar had never properly told Katrín the story of the house – he must have received some information when he purchased it – but she knew this was partly down to her. She had shown limited interest in the project and allowed him to prattle on about renovations, timber, countersinks, et cetera, without joining in. She turned to Garðar. ‘Could he have had something to do with these crosses? What sort of man was the previous owner, anyway?’
Garðar relaxed his right calf and started stretching his left. This seemed more effective, since it made him scowl even harder. ‘There’s only what I’ve already told you. He was just some guy, and no, I don’t think these crosses can be connected to him in any way. He acquired the place long after the crosses were put on the graves, judging by the dates on them.’ He relaxed his calf and moved away from the wall. ‘He was also a bit of a loner, unmarried and childless, so I don’t think he’d have brought the crosses with him from Reykjavík. He never lived here or in Ísafjörður.’
‘Could he have had a wife that he never told anyone about?’ Líf’s voice trembled slightly. ‘Have had a child with her and then killed them?’
Garðar looked at the ceiling in exasperation. ‘Somehow I doubt it. He would have had to have been an extremely early starter; the guy would hardly have been more than ten years old when this Hugi was born.’ He sighed. ‘The crosses have nothing to do with the house, and they were probably put there by some tourist or God knows who.’
‘I woke up to the sound of someone talking last night.’ Líf pursed her lips until they went white. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t tell you about it this morning, but it seemed to be coming from the ground floor. There’s something wrong with this house.’
‘That’s enough.’ Garðar seemed unhappy about the way the conversation was developing. No doubt he missed having Einar there, or simply any other man who he could roll his eyes at. ‘You dreamt it. It’s true that there’s plenty wrong with this house, but it all has to do with maintenance, which is why we’re here.’ He shook his head and muttered: ‘Voices. Jesus.’
‘I know what I heard. And it was just one voice. A child’s voice.’ The house’s woodwork cracked loudly just as Líf said this, and she jumped.
‘See.’ Garðar sounded triumphant. ‘That’s what you heard. Houses make all sorts of noises, especially old wooden shacks like this. You’re just more aware of it at night when everything’s quiet.’
‘It wasn’t a creak like that. It was a voice.’
Katrín didn’t want to hear any more about Líf’s dreams. She didn’t want to fuel her own imagination with the idea that every crack or creak of the house was a voice speaking or whispering. ‘I agree with Garðar, Líf; you dreamt it. You know how it is when you’re drowsy, you start imagining all sorts of nonsense.’ Before Líf could reply, she turned to Garðar. ‘But even if the guy didn’t have any children, he must have had heirs. Why didn’t they want to keep the house?’ In a way this was an odd question; the house was dilapidated, yet according to the skipper who had sailed them to the area, property here was sought after.
‘How would I know? Maybe they’re all old and have no interest in making the trip out here. There’s no electricity and the house is in need of repairs, which is something not everyone is willing to deal with. Maybe the people needed their money more than some shack in the middle of nowhere. There are probably a million reasons. I didn’t want to start asking the estate agent about some dead guy, even if you wouldn’t have hesitated.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t.’ Though Líf said this, Katrín knew better. Líf wasn’t much given to verbosity; things were either wonderful or rubbish, and decisions were made without much reflection. Her and Einar’s strong financial situation had perhaps inspired her response; the consequences of blund
ering into some sort of badly thought out plan were never so awful that it made much difference one way or another. Katrín found the discussion of the house’s previous owner a welcome distraction and she regretted having made a big deal about the crosses; she particularly regretted having made Garðar hobble out on his sore feet, and having startled Líf. She was embarrassed that she hadn’t simply grabbed the crosses and brought them in, but it was too late now. She would have to fix this by shaking off the unpleasant feeling their isolation seemed to inspire in her and make sure that Líf didn’t sense it – she seemed to be in such a state that the slightest sign of anxiety on Katrín’s part would fuel her fear. Katrín stood up and went over to Garðar. ‘Aren’t you glad we weren’t with you? The estate agent would probably have cancelled the sale.’ She put her arms around him. Through his thick clothes she could feel warmth emanating from him and hoped that it was mutual, though he seemed distant and didn’t return the embrace. He was probably uncomfortable in front of Líf, since he was never one for public displays of affection. Yet Katrín had the sneaking suspicion that there was more to it, and that Garðar knew more about the house’s owner than he was willing to admit.
‘I am, very glad.’ Garðar pushed a curl that had detached itself from the rest of Katrín’s tangled mess of hair out of her eyes. He looked past her and winked and smiled at Líf. Katrín couldn’t see Líf’s reaction, but she hoped that this friendly display would calm her down. Garðar turned back to his wife and put his arms around her. ‘Shall we stop chattering and get back to work?’
Katrín sighed. ‘I’ve hardly got the energy to paint any more today; isn’t there something that we can do with our eyes shut?’ She felt too content in Garðar’s arms to tear herself away from him and resume working. The sun had sunk even lower in the sky since the food had been put on the table and all at once it was as if darkness was descending. Suddenly the kitchen didn’t seem as ugly; the yellowed paint on the walls looked less patchy and the stains of years gone by faded into the background.
Garðar squeezed Katrín slightly awkwardly before loosening his grip. ‘We can take better advantage of the rest of the light if we do something outside. We could start ripping out the rotten planks from the porch. It’ll warm us up as well. Come on, Líf, some fresh air will perk you up.’
‘Well I’m not going to stay in here by myself.’ Líf’s voice seemed to have regained its former assurance and she sounded normal again. She smiled at them and emerged from the corner. ‘It’s probably warmer outside than in. I’m freezing to death.’ She nudged Putti with her toe and he woke with a start, looking embarrassed at not having remained on the alert. He stood up and stretched with a yawn.
As soon as Líf said this, Katrín felt the cold that had crept over them like the dusk. She automatically zipped her fleece all the way up her neck and pulled its sleeves over her fingers. They would certainly warm up working outside. ‘Me neither. We’re definitely lighting the stove as soon as we come back in. Screw sparing the firewood.’ Still, the longer they waited to light the fire, the better. The amount of firewood had seemed endless as they carried it from the pier, but last night when they’d fetched some logs to fire up the stove before they went to bed for the night, the stack had looked worryingly low. None of them wanted to spend their final evenings shivering, so they had agreed to light the stove as little as possible.
‘I’ll work like the devil himself is driving me if you put those crosses back where you found them. I can’t imagine having them in the house tonight,’ said Líf. It was a reasonable enough proposition, but no matter how much Katrín tried to pluck up her courage to go and return the crosses, she couldn’t shrug off the profound unease that prevented her from actually doing so.
‘Agreed,’ she said at last.
Líf seemed to cheer up again at Katrín’s assent. ‘Good. I wouldn’t sleep a wink with these things in the house.’
Garðar opened his mouth as if he were planning to say something; maybe to ask when they’d become so neurotic, but he stopped and merely nodded. He grabbed the crosses and took them to a little space between the kitchen and the back door, where someone had put up some makeshift shelves for provisions. The shelves were mostly empty; they’d arranged their tools on the bottom one, but otherwise the only things on them were some dusty, empty wooden crates, as well as the cardboard boxes containing the things whose ownership they’d been puzzling over. They managed to put on their outerwear in the narrow space without bumping into each other too much. Garðar took the crosses with him, Katrín a crowbar and hammer, while Líf settled for a can of fizzy drink that she’d grabbed from the kitchen. The air outside was pleasantly clean and fresh and Katrín couldn’t help but stand there and enjoy the feeling of filling her lungs again, allowing her sore muscles to rest for the final push in the day’s repairs. In the meantime, Garðar set off for the hollow to return the crosses, with Putti at his heels, while Líf sat on the porch sipping her drink. They watched Garðar in silence as he inched his way through the angelica that swallowed Putti as soon as they stepped into it, then vanished when he bent down to replace the crosses in the clump of weeds. Katrín’s heart beat faster when he didn’t reappear immediately. What would she do if he vanished entirely? Líf would certainly lose her mind and she wasn’t sure that she herself wouldn’t do the same.
But Katrín didn’t need to wonder about this for long, because suddenly from the brush emerged the dark blue jacket for which she’d paid a large sum as his Christmas present two years earlier. Then Garðar swept his hat off his head, smiled at them and held up his other hand, thumb raised. Katrín was relieved but still felt uneasy inside. Her discomfort at being alone in this place refused to slacken its grip, just as the last withered leaves on the branches beside the house stubbornly refused to fall. She smiled back and waved, determined to go with him next time he and Líf climbed the hill in search of a mobile phone signal; the hike could hardly be any more unbearable than how she would feel if something happened to them or they got lost up there.
‘Well, then. That’s that out of the way.’ Garðar’s breath was visible, as was Putti’s, though less so. ‘Shall we work on the porch while there’s still enough light to see?’ He kicked at the corner of the porch, jolting Líf, who was sitting on the edge of it just next to him. ‘This is probably all completely rotten.’
‘Then should we tear it up, if it is?’ Katrín stepped from the porch onto the grass. Líf was jolted again, and this time a little bit of her drink splashed from the can. ‘We don’t have the wood to replace it.’
‘If we’d brought along everything we needed, we’d still be carting stuff up from the pier now. I guess we’ll have to come back later, maybe even bring a carpenter with us.’ He put his hand out for the crowbar Katrín was holding.
‘A carpenter?’ Katrín stopped kicking at the porch. ‘We can’t afford a carpenter. I thought the material and the things we’ve already bought would be enough.’ She felt a sudden flush of panic. They were a whisker away from going bankrupt; all the money Garðar had scraped together from securities trading had vanished in the form of worthless stocks, leaving behind nothing but debts. In fact, they were technically bankrupt, but the banking system kept them afloat thanks to some tricks that Katrín didn’t completely understand and left Garðar to deal with. But these solutions were only superficial; the clock was clearly ticking, and soon the life raft would be set adrift. Her income and Garðar’s unemployment benefit might have sufficed if they’d been debt-free and got around by bicycle. But they’d spent the money that was supposed to ease their payments over the next few months on renovations to this house, and there wasn’t a króna remaining. The notion that they could afford to hire a carpenter to work so far from civilisation, on a full-time wage plus special location allowance, was about as realistic as them tearing down the house and building a new one. ‘We can’t afford it. You know that.’
As so often during their conversations on this topic, Garðar ignored her p
rotests, since there was more to it than simply not being able to hire a skilled worker. No less than their entire future was at risk; their hopes and dreams would come to nothing, even though their plans hadn’t been particularly ambitious: a house, two cars and, later, children – no more than the usual. Though it might prove painful, Katrín could just as well live without these things, but Garðar seemed incapable of dealing with the reality. She was starting to think that he felt everything would be doomed if he said a single word about their situation now.
‘Let’s just try tearing up one damaged corner and we’ll see,’ he suggested. He stuck the crowbar beneath a worn-out plank and stepped on the shaft. Creaking and cracking sounds hindered further conversation as he struggled with the wood.
Katrín stood at a distance and watched, too angry to participate in this demolition project. She was cold again.
‘Don’t worry about the money,’ Líf, who had stood up, whispered in her ear. ‘If we need to hire a carpenter, I can see to that. We’re all in this together and I have plenty of money.’ She placed her hand on Katrín’s shoulder, but then let it fall again awkwardly. ‘Einar converted most of our assets into euros just before the crash and he had life insurance, too, so I’m doing okay. And I don’t fritter it away, do I?’ Katrín looked at her and smiled. She could think of few women who spent as much as Líf did on clothes, haircuts, bags, shoes and other necessities. And although Líf might be well off at the moment, Katrín doubted that her resources would be enough to maintain the lifestyle to which Líf had accustomed herself while Einar was alive. At least not for long. As the CEO of one of the biggest companies in Iceland, Einar had had a very good income before the crash, and when the company had changed hands he was given a handsome severance payment, no doubt leaving him potentially worry-free for the rest of his life as far as money was concerned. But brokerage accounts were one thing; a steady income quite another. The former could take some serious hits if investments weren’t managed properly, and she couldn’t envision Líf paying attention to such things – any more than she could envision her getting a job. ‘Thanks for the kind offer. But it’s better if we try to manage these repairs ourselves. It’s good for us. For you, too.’ She smiled warmly at Líf, since her offer had been gracious. But Katrín had no interest in taking money from her, even if the gesture was well intended, unless they were able to match Líf’s contribution. She had even less faith in the idea that Garðar could live with accepting charity from Einar’s widow.
I Remember You Page 6
