“Absolutely,” said Lára. “Kristín was lucky to have such a loving mother, and she didn’t need anyone else.” Lára hesitated, presumably scanning the letter for something specific. “Gudný states quite clearly that Magnús Baldvinsson is the father,” she said eventually. “They were intimate only once, when he came to meet her father on Nationalist Party business and she became pregnant. She says she has never slept with any other man, neither before nor since, and jokes that there are unlikely to be any more men in her life now.”
“Does she says whether he knew about the child?” asked Thóra. Even if he did, he could hardly lay claim to inherit from her.
“She says he went to Reykjavík to study before she was aware of her condition, but she wrote him a letter after Kristín was born. He never replied.” Lára sighed. “It’s clear from her letter that she was very hurt, particularly on her daughter’s behalf. If she had ever loved him, that put an end to it, understandably.”
“Yes, there are things you can never put right in relationships,” agreed Thóra, “and refusing to acknowledge your own child is one of the worst.”
“Gudný wrote me the letter to ask me to take her daughter in,” said Lára. “Her father was already dead, and she and her daughter were living with her uncle Grímur. Gudný says she doesn’t trust him, that he’s deranged. She says he looks at her and her daughter with such hatred that she finds it quite frightening, and that she definitely doesn’t want to leave her daughter in his care. She even asks me to find out whether anything can be done for his daughter, Málfrídur, as she’s also concerned about her, although she’s older and more capable of looking after herself.”
“Well, well,” said Thóra. “Do you suppose he knew Gudný wanted you to be Kristín’s guardian?” asked Thóra. “If Kristín went, he’d lose all his property along with her.”
“I don’t know,” said Lára. “She doesn’t say so, just that she doesn’t know when the letter will reach me as she doesn’t trust Grímur to post it. She says she’s going to give it to her little girl in the hope that she can pass it to someone. She says she’s talked to Kristín and told her about me, how kind I am, and that maybe she’ll be able to see me soon. Then she adds that she can trust the child to take good care of the letter, although she’s young. She’s so conscientious and good.”
“She managed to keep the letter a secret, at any rate,” said Thóra.
“Yes,” said a faint voice at the other end of the line. The old lady was obviously weeping now. “No doubt I’ll speak to you about it again after the funeral,” said Lára through her tears. “I think I should go now.”
“No problem,” said Thóra. “I’ll be there. You can rely on me.” She said goodbye and hung up.
She had been pacing up and down the short corridor as she spoke on the phone, without paying much attention to her surroundings. Suddenly she realized that behind most of the doors along the corridor women were busy bringing children into the world. The shouts from Delivery Room C sounded familiar, and she listened, hoping to hear a baby cry. She couldn’t make anything out, and anyway it was unlikely that its little lungs would be any match for the noise coming from its mother. Thóra distinguished a sentence between the howls: “It wasn’t meant to hurt this much!” Mentally agreeing with Sigga, Thóra smiled to herself. The baby was clearly about to arrive.
She listened at the door, and after a few more groans and shouts the forlorn crying of a baby was heard. Her eyes filled with tears, and she moved away from the door. She hoped that the fact that she hadn’t heard Gylfi’s voice didn’t mean he’d fainted, but then she heard him say, “Ugh, take that horrible thing away!”
Thóra was taken aback, but Sigga’s mother snapped, “Don’t be silly, boy! She’s only showing you the placenta and caul. Some people dry them to make lampshades.” Thóra could only hope that there wouldn’t be a nasty surprise among her Christmas presents this year.
The door opened and Gylfi emerged. He hugged his mother, his face glowing. “It was pretty disgusting, but I’m a dad! It’s a boy.”
Thóra kissed him over and over again on both cheeks. “Oh, Gylfi!” she said between kisses. “Congratulations, my darling boy. Is he adorable?”
“He’s all, like, covered in white stuff,” answered Gylfi with a little shudder. “And the umbilical cord’s a bit …” Instead of finishing the sentence, he opened the delivery-room door. “See for yourself,” he said, going in.
Thóra didn’t want to intrude, so contented herself with peeking around the door. She had a vague impression of Sigga’s mother and the midwife at the other end of the delivery table, but the baby in the arms of the new mother captured all her attention.
She entered the room in a trance. She was a grandmother. She was surprised to realize that once she had seen her grandson, she longed above all else to hurry back to Matthew.
EPILOGUE
Saturday, 24 June 2006
It was Thóra’s turn. She stepped up to the open grave. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” she murmured, sprinkling earth over the little coffin. She made the sign of the cross into the empty air above the polished veneer of the coffin lid and turned away.
Only a few people had come to the little church and silently followed the coffin out into the churchyard, and now they stood in the drizzle. Thóra had taken Lára’s hand for the short procession. She felt that the old lady appreciated the gesture, and she didn’t let go until Lára walked sadly over to the coffin to pay her last respects to the dead child. Only she and an elderly man among the mourners appeared to be affected by the ceremony. He was a sad sight. It was Magnús Baldvinsson. He had arrived just as the service was beginning, and had quietly taken a seat at the back of the church. In the procession too, he had stayed a few steps behind the others. His hat was clutched tightly in both hands, and whenever Thóra looked at him his eyes were fixed on the ground. She felt sorry for him. She wondered whether she should go over to him, but decided to stay with Lára. She needed her, but Thóra had no idea how Magnús would react if she approached him.
The pastor closed his eyes and began the prayer, and Thóra followed suit. She had a feeling that Kristín would have approved of his choice:
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
And if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
The mourners stumbled their way through “Abide with Me” before leaving, one by one, with the pastor’s blessing. Finally only three remained: Lára, Thóra, and Magnús. He still stood apart, head bowed.
“Come with me,” said Lára quietly. “I’ll make you some coffee.” She put her arm through Thóra’s. “I want to show you the letter. Are you in a hurry?”
“No,” answered Thóra. They walked out of the churchyard, leaving Magnús Baldvinsson standing alone over the remains of his long-dead daughter.
Thóra smiled to herself as she heard a faint cry from the lava field beyond the churchyard. That damned cat, she thought, but then she remembered that she had spotted the ginger tom when she drove past Tunga on her way to the funeral. He could never have made it all this way in such a short time. The crying grew more piteous and Thóra grasped the old lady’s thin, frail arm more firmly. “Could we walk a little faster?” she asked, shivering. “This place gives me the creeps.”
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My Soul to Take tg-2 Page 37
