The Creak on the Stairs

by Eva Bjorg AEgisdóttir

  She wiped away the tears as they spilled over. What on earth was the matter with her? Why was she suddenly so easily upset? After all, she had coped with so much over the years. And she had Bjarni. He hadn’t been a bad son to her – quite the opposite. Although he took after his father in appearance, his expression was gentler, lacking all hardness. Despite being nearly forty, he had held on to his boyish looks. When he smiled, her world seemed brighter, but when Ása saw him with the boys he coached at football, something seemed to break inside her.

  She knew he wanted children. Not that he’d mentioned it, of course, but she knew. She was his mother, after all, and knew him better than anyone else. The only thing standing in the way was her. She was too self-centred to have children. And because of her, the family line would die out with Bjarni. Ása didn’t know if she could bear it, but what choice did she have?

  She drew the curtains, changed into her nightie and got into bed, pulling the duvet over herself, though it wasn’t yet evening. It wasn’t Bjarni’s childlessness that had caused her to react so violently just now, but the visit she had received that morning. What had happened then had distressed her so much that she needed to lie down. She was too old to start reopening old wounds. She’d been through enough suffering. Now all she wanted was to go to sleep. To sleep and never to wake up again.

  The wardrobe was crammed to bursting with clothes. Old dresses and coats were tightly packed on the hangers and there was a heap of shoes and bags on the floor. Elma couldn’t picture herself ever wearing anything in there again.

  ‘For some reason I’ve never got round to going through it all.’ Her mother, Aðalheiður, stood there in her loose shirt, hands on her hips, glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She was a small, slightly plump woman, with short, blonde hair. To Elma, she never seemed to change.

  They were standing in Elma’s old room, contemplating the over-stuffed wardrobe that had been used for storage in recent years. The task seemed hopeless.

  ‘Still, it’s a good thing you hung on to it all. I mean, I could wear this at Christmas,’ Elma said, holding up a shiny red dress with frilly sleeves. ‘And this would look great with it,’ she added, pulling out a beige velvet jacket.

  ‘Oh, you looked so smart in that jacket,’ Aðalheiður said wistfully, taking it from her. ‘Try it on for me. Go on. Please.’

  ‘Mum, I wore that to my confirmation,’ Elma said, laughing. ‘I doubt I’d be able to squeeze into it now.’

  ‘You’ve lost so much weight over the last few weeks,’ Aðalheiður said accusingly.

  Elma rolled her eyes but didn’t reply. She knew it was true from the way her clothes hung off her, though she hadn’t dared to get on the scales.

  ‘Oh, please, try it on,’ her mother persisted, pushing the jacket at her. ‘Wait a sec, I’ll find the trousers that go with it.’ Turning to the wardrobe, she started pulling out garments willy-nilly and chucking them on the floor, not stopping until she emerged triumphantly with a pair of flared beige trousers. ‘I knew they were in here somewhere. Come on, try them on.’

  ‘No way!’ Elma retorted. ‘What were you thinking of, making me wear that? A fourteen-year-old girl in a beige trouser suit? Why couldn’t I just have worn a pink dress?’

  ‘You chose it yourself, Elma. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘I can’t possibly have worn that voluntarily.’

  ‘You and your friends all had them. Silja and Kristín both came along to your confirmation in the same kind of outfit. I’ve got a photo somewhere. Hang on, I’ll find it.’

  ‘No, for God’s sake, Mum. Please, don’t bother.’

  ‘Well, anyway, I thought you all looked very smart,’ Aðalheiður insisted, flicking invisible dust off the jacket. ‘Have you heard from Kristín or Silja at all recently?’

  ‘No, not a word.’

  ‘You should get in touch with them. They still live here, you know. They didn’t run away like you.’ Although Aðalheiður’s tone was light as she said this, Elma knew her mother had never been a fan of Reykjavík, dismissing it as too congested, too crowded and too far away. In fact, it only took forty-five minutes to drive there now that the Hvalfjörður tunnel had been opened, but it still seemed a long way to her parents, who were used to never having to drive for more than five minutes to get anywhere they wanted.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to them for years. It would be weird if I suddenly rang them out of the blue, just because I’ve moved back home.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be weird. People call their old friends. Who knows, they might be thinking the same thing?’

  ‘Somehow I seriously doubt they’re thinking the same thing.’

  ‘Well, anyway, you were the one who took off. You moved away. They tried to stay in touch, didn’t they? How good were you about ringing them back?’

  Elma shrugged. She’d hardly given any thought to Silja and Kristín for years. The three of them had been inseparable all the way through school, but they had gradually grown apart after Elma moved to Reykjavík. ‘I don’t suppose I was good enough about returning their calls,’ she admitted sheepishly, smiling at her mother. Sitting down on the bed, she started folding the clothes that Aðalheiður had thrown on the floor while searching for the trousers.

  ‘It’s never too late, Elma,’ Aðalheiður said, gently stroking her shoulder. ‘And now I insist you pop on the suit without another word. It cost me a fortune and you only wore it once. You owe it to me.’

  A few minutes later, Elma was standing before the mirror in the beige velvet suit. The trouser legs and sleeves were too short and although she could just about button up the jacket, she couldn’t zip up the flies at all.

  ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ Aðalheiður said, mouth twitching as she struggled to keep a straight face. Elma threw her an incredulous glance and they both exploded with laughter.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jón, Elma’s father, put his head round the door and stared in surprise at his wife and daughter, who were wiping the tears from their eyes. ‘Are you trying on clothes for your new job?’ he asked Elma. When neither of them answered, he shook his head, muttering, ‘Good, good,’ and headed off in the direction of the TV room, where he would shortly nod off in his armchair with a book of sudoku puzzles on his lap.

  ‘Right, we’ll never get this done if we don’t get started,’ Aðalheiður said, once they had recovered. ‘It’s nice to see you laugh,’ she added, with a good-natured glance at her daughter. ‘I’ve missed that.’

  Just over an hour later Elma stood there alone, surveying her handiwork. She had finished sorting through most of the clothes. One pile was to go to the Red Cross, another belonged to her sister Dagný, who was three years older than her and whose clothes had somehow found their way into the wardrobe as well.

  Elma lay down on the bed and pulled the cover over her. The room had barely changed since she moved out. Still the same furniture and her old books on the shelves.

  It was a peculiar feeling to be home again. After all those years in Reykjavík she felt as if she was back where she had started. But she wasn’t angry, not anymore. The anger had only lasted a few days. Now she was just sad. And lonely. So desperately lonely. Would she ever get used to being single?

  She sighed quietly and rolled over in bed. Anyway, here she was, having got through her first week at work. It was Saturday evening and, like so many other evenings before, she was lying in bed, waiting to hear her mother’s voice calling to tell her that supper was ready. Somehow, time kept on passing.

  She turned on her side and felt her eyelids growing heavy. There was something so comforting about the smell of the bedclothes and the familiar sounds of the house: her parents’ voices, the groaning of the plumbing when a tap was turned on, the creaking of the parquet floors.

  She was finding it hard to sleep in the new flat. It took her ages to drop off and she kept starting awake in the middle of the night for no reason. It had nothing to do with her neighbours since the building
was extremely quiet. Come to think of it, perhaps that was the problem. The silence. No sound of breathing at her side. No one turning over in bed.

  Her old fear of the dark had reared its head again since she had moved into her new home. When she woke up in the night she invariably needed a pee, and on the way to the bathroom she couldn’t shake off the feeling that someone was watching her. That someone was standing at the end of the hallway in the dark corner where no streetlights shone in. It took all her willpower not to run back to her room and pull the duvet over her head.

  She had to remind herself that she wasn’t a little girl anymore.

  That the real evil wasn’t to be found lurking in dark corners but in the human soul.

  Magnea had got the email – she just hadn’t read it. When she saw who had sent it, she knew immediately what it would contain. So she had deleted it without giving it a second glance. She didn’t know how many emails that was now. They’d been arriving for weeks and they always said the same thing. Always contained the same plea. At first, the tone had been friendly, almost too polite, and she had begun to remember things that she had absolutely no desire to rake up. But now the tone had changed and the messages were despairing and increasingly aggressive. She hadn’t met her since they were both little girls. That’s why she had been so shocked when she saw her at the restaurant. Anyway, what could they possibly have to say to each other?

  Magnea had come out for a run to clear her head, but it wasn’t working. As she jogged, her thoughts kept returning to the messages, to what they had done. She just couldn’t see the point of dragging it all up again. The past was past and nothing could change it now. She had done well for herself: she was happily married, lived in a beautiful house and went on regular foreign holidays – just for pleasure, because she could. She had no desire to change anything simply in order to achieve some kind of peace of mind, for which she felt no need.

  Besides, Magnea knew that it would mean losing Bjarni and that was unthinkable. That’s why she had deleted the messages without answering them, and hoped against hope that the woman would give up in the end.

  She paused a moment to catch her breath, then carried on running. She needed to drop by the shop to buy a couple of ingredients for this evening’s dessert. Bjarni was in charge of the roast; it was his speciality. Gylfi, Bjarni’s childhood friend, and his wife, Drífa, were coming round for supper. Taking it in turns to invite one another to dinner was something they had done regularly over the years, though the invitations used to be much more frequent before Gylfi and Drífa had the twins, who were now five years old.

  After picking up what they needed from the shop, she walked the rest of the way home. Physical tiredness sent currents of well-being through her body. She rarely felt as contented as she did after a good run. According to her watch, she had been going for nearly an hour at a brisk pace.

  Bjarni was standing at the kitchen island when she came in, concentrating on cutting fine slices in the tops of the potatoes. The joint of beef was on the table, seasoned and ready to go in the oven.

  ‘That looks good, love,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. Bjarni was so tall she had to stand on tiptoe to reach. She loved that about him. It made him seem so manly, so masterful.

  ‘Good run?’ he asked, without looking up from his task.

  ‘Yes. I did a circuit of the town, past the forestry plantation, then down Innnesvegur. There was a fantastic view from the beach at Langisandur. It’s perfect running weather – you should have come with me.’ She turned on the tap and filled a glass, then drank it down in one go and leant back against the kitchen counter. ‘Can I do anything to help?’

  ‘No, I’m just going to stick these in.’ Bjarni seasoned the potatoes and put them in the oven. ‘Then I’m going to do this.’ Turning to her, he gripped her by the thighs and lifted her up to sit on the counter.

  ‘Well, well,’ she said, laughing, and kissed him back eagerly, making no objection as he pulled down his trousers.

  Afterwards she took a long, leisurely shower. Everything was more or less ready so she had plenty of time. The home help had come earlier and the place was shining clean. Not that she really understood why she needed a cleaner since there were only the two of them living there and the house rarely got dirty. There were no children to spill things or to tidy up after. But Bjarni insisted on the help. He had grown up with that arrangement and wanted everything cleaned once a week but saw no reason why Magnea should have to do it. She didn’t object, but then she rarely did. After all, it was up to him how he spent his money – he was the main breadwinner, not her on her teacher’s salary.

  Magnea’s thoughts returned to the email. She was so contented with her life, so perfectly happy with what she had. Why couldn’t the woman understand that and leave her alone? Feeling the irritation building up inside her, she inhaled deeply several times. It didn’t matter. The woman would give up in the end and go away and get on with her own life. It would be in her interest, after all.

  By the time Magnea stepped out of the shower, she had succeeded in pushing away any unpleasant thoughts. First the run, then Bjarni, had left her feeling unusually relaxed, so she was quick to get into the right mood for the dinner party. While doing her hair and make-up she hummed along to the music Bjarni had put on. Then she dressed in a white chiffon shirt, black trousers and high stiletto heels. She swayed her hips to the music as she laid the table in the living room and lit the candles.

  Shortly afterwards, the doorbell rang.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Magnea called to Bjarni and checked her appearance in the mirror before going into the hall. Putting on a wide smile, she opened the door, ready to show their guests her best side. But when she saw who was standing there, the smile was wiped off her face. A pair of dark-brown eyes stared at her anxiously.

  ‘You didn’t answer any of my emails,’ the woman said, with a quick, on-off smile. ‘You know we need to talk.’ She sounded obstinate, as if determined to get her own way.

  Magnea froze, staring at her, and prayed that Bjarni wouldn’t come out. She didn’t want to have to explain to him how she knew this woman. She had to get rid of her before he came to the door, but she knew the woman wasn’t going anywhere until she had got what she wanted.

  ‘All right, fine,’ Magnea whispered. ‘I’ll meet you. We can talk. But not now, later. I’ll meet you later this evening, but only if you leave now.’ A car drove past and Magnea started to close the door. She didn’t want the guests to arrive while she was standing here with this woman on the doorstep.

  ‘Where can we meet?’ the woman asked, wrapping her black coat tightly around herself.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Magnea hissed.

  ‘You don’t have my number. Do you want to write it down?’ The woman’s desperation was so palpable that Magnea almost felt sorry for her.

  ‘By the lighthouse,’ Magnea whispered. ‘I’ll meet you by the lighthouse.’

  ‘By the lighthouse,’ the woman agreed and walked away. She was still holding her coat tightly around her as she got into her car and drove off.

  ‘Was that Mum?’ Bjarni called from the bathroom.

  ‘No, it was … just some kids collecting bottles for the deposits,’ Magnea replied, trying to sound normal. ‘To raise money for the swimming club.’ There was very little that could shake her composure these days, and this visit must be no exception.

  Akranes 1989

  She never knew exactly when it started. It happened so slowly. Like something you don’t notice until afterwards, when you look back and realise that everything has changed. That’s how Elísabet experienced it, at least. She remembered the time before everything went wrong, when her daddy was alive and she wasn’t afraid. But the memory was so distant, it was like a dream.

  If she were to try to pinpoint the time or place, it would probably be the day her little brother died. She remembered it so well. Her mother’s screams and the people who came round afterwards; the same peopl
e as had come round after her daddy went away. Everyone in a hurry, their voices low, their eyes wet with tears. And she remembered the tiny body lying so still in the big bed.

  But perhaps she had remembered wrong. Perhaps it had begun the day her daddy disappeared. Elísabet wasn’t sure, and anyway it didn’t really matter. Everything had changed because her mother had changed.

  At first she thought her mother was ill. When she wouldn’t get out of bed and just slept all day. All day and all night. Elísabet didn’t know what she was supposed to do, and at first she had tried knocking on her mother’s bedroom door and asking questions. What was for lunch? What clothes should she put on? Could she go out and play? But when there were no replies, she gave up knocking. When she was hungry and there was no food in the house, she simply went over to Solla’s.

  Then one day her mother got out of bed. Elísabet sat on the floor and played with her dolls while she watched her mother dressing up, combing her hair and putting on red lipstick. She was in a good mood, swaying to the music and winking at her. If Elísabet had known what this would lead to, she wouldn’t have smiled back. After her mother had put her to bed and whispered to her to go to sleep, she had heard the front door slam downstairs. She had lain there quite still for a long time, listening. Had her mother gone out? Elísabet had wriggled out from under the duvet and tiptoed downstairs, peeping into one room after the other, until in the end she was standing in the sitting room, calling her mother. First in a low voice, then louder and louder. No one answered: she was alone.

  That was before she learnt that sometimes it was better to be on your own. Now she would give almost anything to be left alone.