“There you are, Disa dear,” he said, relieved when I hurried over to him. “I couldn’t see you anywhere.”
Joka was at a typing class, and Father and I took a taxi to Gardastraeti so that we wouldn’t have to be weighed down by his luggage. Just as we were setting off, a man came running after the car, gesticulating wildly to catch our attention. We stopped.
“The doctor forgot his bag,” he said, panting. “I noticed it up on deck.”
We thanked him and drove away. He was unusually plump for such a young man and when I looked round I saw him waddling back, dragging his feet.
“Your mother is worried about you,” was the first thing Father said as we left the docks.
I was silent.
“Is there any use trying to make you come to your senses?”
I was speechless for once, not having expected him to come to the point so quickly. Finally I stammered miserably, “Oh, Father . . .”
It was then that he smiled with his eyes and said: “So you’re determined to be a bohemian, my dear.”
We didn’t speak again during the car journey, and when we reached 9 Gardastraeti I helped the driver in with the bags. Father moved with slow deliberation and crawled straight into bed after greeting Mrs. Olsen and thanking her for looking after Jorunn and me.
When Joka and I came home from school that evening, he had gone to dinner with his friend Vilhjalmur and Thorunn, his wife. He’d asked Mrs. Olsen to give me an envelope. I opened it at once and read with Joka breathing down my neck:
Miss Bohemian, Asdis Jonsdottir,
You will find out one day how short life is and how little time we have. For this reason I am not going to try and dissuade you any further, I can see how pointless it would be. On the other hand, I do have three wishes to put to you:
Firstly, I would like to meet Mr. Sivertsen tomorrow, preferably between two and four. I mean to speak to him about the arrangements he has made for you in London. I wish to meet him in private.
Secondly, I would like you to do well in your exams this spring to please your mother. She deserves it.
Thirdly, I would like you to do your best in Sivertsen’s kitchen on Saturday evening, as I have booked a table for two at Hotel Borg for eight o’clock. You can tell your sister Jorunn, who is no doubt standing beside you as you read this, that it would be my pleasure to invite her as my guest.
Father
11
Hands which were ignorant of what lay in store for them, eyes innocent of what they would see, afraid of nothing. An open smile and thick, coal-black hair, combed back. Of average height, I think, with broad shoulders.
I think.
When I try to picture him in my memory the first thing I see is the silhouette of his hands against white paper. He is sitting at the old desk which we bought in a moment of extravagance at an outdoor market that spring and installed by the window facing the garden. He’s holding a pen. Dusk is falling. He turns to me when I bring him hot water for his tea. All I can see is the smile in his eyes.
“Jakob, it’s getting dark,” I say, lighting the lamp on the table beside him.
The twilight trickles in slowly and silently, wrapping itself around my feet, mantling our bed on the other side of the room. He shifts the pen between his fingers when I lean down and touch him. I see the shadow on the pages in front of me.
“Shall we walk down to the lake?”
Leaving the lamp on, we set off, walking hand in hand. When we come down to the boats, which have been drawn up on the shore, I see a yellow gleam from the window up on the hill. I turn to him to point out the light but he has disappeared.
Darkness falls on the boats. I am still holding the shadow of his hand.
I must have been thinking about golden plovers and snipe when the waiter offered me coffee, which was why I responded to him more slowly than I would have liked. The food was adequate—bouillon, salmon and roast duckling— but I was amazed by the formality of the meal. The captain had invited me to take a seat by his side; it is clearly a much sought-after privilege to sit at his table.
About two hours before supper people had retired to their cabins. I went up on deck to get some fresh air. A young man whom I hadn’t noticed when we sailed from Scotland came over and began to talk to me.
I gathered that he had just finished a doctorate in Old Icelandic literature and would be taking over from the professor in Copenhagen the following year. I didn’t ask many questions, just nodded, as I wanted to be left in peace. But he chattered on, informing me uninvited that the passengers had mostly gone to have a rest, but would later wash from head to toe before donning their glad rags. He announced furthermore that the evening after sailing from Leith was particularly important as new guests had come on board who needed to be simultaneously summed up and impressed, as he put it. He talked as if he were above this sort of display, yet there was no doubt that it occupied his mind
“You’ll be invited to sit at the captain’s table,” he said. “You’re in the main suite. Everybody’s been asking about you.”
I noticed when I came on board that the passengers had a great deal of luggage with them, some even bringing iron-bound trunks. No doubt their clothes were carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper. I imagined that all the little boxes I saw were for clothes brushes, sewing kits or cosmetics. Some of the gentlemen had étuis made of leather but none could compare with Anthony’s. I couldn’t help smiling when I thought of it. It contains metal holders for shaving soap, shaving brushes, hand soap, toothbrushes, toothpaste tubes and toothpowder containers. There are also many different types of pockets for razor and mirror, comb, hairbrush, nail pick and nail file, shoehorn, shoelaces, aftershave, face cream and scissors. Before each journey, Anthony checks that nothing is missing in this magnificent étui, making sure that the aftershave has not evaporated or the razor blade lost its bite. He caresses and polishes everything, and asks the busboys and porters to take great care of it when they are carrying it from the car to the train or up to his hotel room.
No, they couldn’t even begin to compare with this, the little cases brought on board by the gentlemen. Goodness, what airs and graces they put on when they came in to dinner, looking so dapper and smart, their wives wearing the sort of distant expressions they had no doubt seen on Audrey Hep-burn or Vivien Leigh at the cinema.
The duckling wasn’t bad, but I was thinking of snipe and plover when the waiter offered me coffee. I thought I could hear the plover singing softly outside my bedroom window at Kopasker and see the snipe springing up from the marsh down by the road with its unnerving squawk.
“Kaffe?” asked the waiter, who was Danish.
I nodded and realized all of a sudden that it was too late to turn back.
The doctor of Old Icelandic talked nonstop. He said he was going to write a book about the voyages of the Vikings when the time was right.
“And the waves,” he said. “The white-foaming waves and the sunbeams like splayed fingers.”
I listened in silence, but couldn’t see any white-foaming waves, as the sea had been like a mirror since we sailed from Leith, the breeze gentle on my cheek. The houses on land grew smaller, the gulls bid us farewell and the watery waste took over. Three nights. In three nights’ time I would be there. And what was I going to say? What explanation was I going to give?
“I’ve discovered the identity of the author of Egil’s Saga,” announced the doctor.
“Really?”
“I’ve been invited to give a lecture on the subject at the University of Iceland. I’ll have to see whether I have time.”
Why was I doing this? I put on my sunglasses, as the sky was now cloudless and the glare hurt my eyes. Why was I making this journey?
“Everyone’s asking who you are,” I heard the doctor say. “I said I didn’t know. ‘Never heard of her,’ I said. You live in England, don’t you?”
I made my excuses and went below. Nosiness. This Icelandic nosiness. Anthony should never
have booked me into this suite. It only attracts attention. I know he meant well, but I do so want to be left alone.
“Who is she? Does she live in England? Asdis Jonsdottir— do you know her at all, boys? Have you ever heard of her?”
I locked the door behind me once I reached my cabin. I closed my eyes, yet was afraid to fall asleep as my picture had appeared to me twice in a dream the previous night. My cheek and arm were visible, but he wasn’t there. When I woke up I had to wait for my heart to stop pounding before going into the bathroom to dry off the sweat.
“Who is she? Does she live in England?”
It was going to be a long journey.
I have brought along a few books, photographs and old letters which I mean to reread during the journey.
When I’d escaped from the doctor and reached the safe refuge of my cabin, I opened the little book that Father had given me the evening I sailed for England. Help Yourself, it is called, with the subtitle: Advice for young people, illustrated with true examples and supported with arguments from the lives of good men. Published in Reykjavik, 1892, compiled by Samuel Smiles and translated by Olafur Olafsson, the vicar of Guttormshagi. I remember this book lying on his table in the dispensary when I was a child. I suspect he used to turn to it for comfort sometimes when times were hard.
“Here, Disa,” he added after saying good-bye. (I can still remember how tightly he hugged me and how long he held me.) “Here, Disa. Put this book in your pocket. It might come in useful.”
He and Joka stood on the dock as the ship sailed out of the bay. He seemed so small, even before I went up the gangway. Sometimes, especially if I haven’t had enough sleep, I have difficulty catching sight of him in my memory.
Little Marilyn and I sat up late and I must say, before going any further, that she hasn’t lost any of her talent for cooking. The moment I took the first mouthful of lobster I knew I was in the presence of a soulmate.
“Nonsense,” she said in embarrassment. “You taught me everything I know.”
After the meal we stayed out on the veranda listening to the familiar evening sounds and treating ourselves to cheese and fruit—peaches, strawberries, apples and cherries—as companionably as if nothing had changed since we used to sit outside the conservatory at home at the end of a long day’s work, talking about everything and nothing, or just enjoying the silence with no need for words.
The hotel is beautifully situated beside Lake Windermere, and although it is not built on high ground, there is nothing to disrupt the view to the south over the water and the Langdale Fells. As we approached earlier today, I noticed an oystercatcher on the shore and a tern diving for minnows. The house is neat and attractive, though not large, a former rectory, as I had guessed from the photographs. The annex where my driver is staying does nothing to detract from the view, as it has been freshly painted. It’s a good thing he didn’t have to pay for lodging at some bed-and-breakfast. Marilyn and her husband run the hotel and own it in partnership, from what I can gather, though naturally it wouldn’t occur to me to inquire into their finances. The rooms are also cozy, proving that little Marilyn has a good memory.
In other words, I would recommend Holbeck Ghyll without hesitation to anyone who is visiting the Lake District in Cumbria.
During the last stages of the journey I had been slightly anxious about what I should say to her when I arrived, but these worries turned out to be unnecessary. They were both there to greet me as we came up the drive, and had clearly been waiting for me. Marilyn opened my door before the driver could get there, while her husband stood back. She had matured attractively, putting on a few pounds where they wouldn’t go amiss and her smile and eyes contained the same sincerity, though they had gained assurance over the years. She hugged me and it was as if we had never quarreled. The porter took my bags and carried them inside, and once we had released each other her husband greeted me warmly and asked the driver to park the car behind the house and take some refreshment in the kitchen.
My room faced south. I ran a bath and lay in the tub looking out over the lake through the open window. A butterfly flew in and fluttered around me and I watched with pleasure as the sun shone on its paper-thin wings, turning them into a flickering spark of light. The sight filled me with a sense of well-being and I felt sure the evening would be delightful.
I had noticed how well husband and wife seemed to get on together, in a nice way, without artifice. My thoughts turned to them as I lay in the bath looking out at the lake and it occurred to me, as so often before, that my attitude to their marriage had been wrong. I pondered this for a while and was on the verge of feeling guilty once again, but told myself after further consideration that there was no point in brooding over something which was long since buried and forgotten. The main thing was that their marriage appeared happy. Satisfied that this conclusion was right, I dried myself in the breeze from the window.
After getting dressed, I took a better look around the room. It was spacious with pretty yellow wallpaper which seemed even more cheerful in the light of the afternoon sun. On the bedside table was a small lamp, a vase containing a reddish yellow rose, and a gardening book. On the coffee table lay brochures about the hotel and information about the neighboring district, as well as a silver cigar box, dried grasses and a cookery book which I had been persuaded to take part in writing several years before. No doubt I would have been better off not to have done so. During the evening little Marilyn told me that a copy was placed in every room in the house, including the downstairs drawing room. I asked her whether she was trying to frighten away the guests, many of whom had no doubt come a long way.
A vine climbed up the wall of the house by the veranda and although there were no grapes as yet, the foliage was pleasant to look at in the evening sun. We ate a leisurely meal and drank a refreshing, full-flavored Muscat. Mr. Thomson—or Bill as she calls him, thank goodness—stayed inside. Marilyn said he was mending riding tackle with a neighbor’s groom. A shy girl, whom Marilyn said she was teaching to wait on tables, brought out the dishes, but left us alone otherwise. When she appeared with the fruit and cheese, Marilyn suddenly said to me:
“I often miss those evenings outside the conservatory.”
I said I did too.
“You used to give me so much good advice. I often regret not having written it down.”
To tell the truth I couldn’t remember any advice, but let it pass. She seemed to realize this and added in explanation, “Perhaps it was more thinking aloud than actual advice, but I still regret not having written it down so I wouldn’t forget. For instance, the story about the man who bathed in soda water because he thought it would increase his fertility. That’s one story I won’t forget, of course.”
I said surely I’d told her something more useful than that.
“You also taught me how to tell a wild duck from a domestic one. The wild duck has red feet, you said, and they are smaller than the feet of a domestic duck.”
I expressed surprise. She smiled.
“Actually, I’ve been looking for wild ducks with red feet for years but can never find any.”
We both burst out laughing.
It was so nice to see her again and reminisce about the past that evening. She offered me port with my cheese but I found the Muscat so refreshing that we opened another bottle and sat up late, gazing at the stars and the moon and forgetting ourselves. Her husband had long since gone to bed and the girl who waited on us had said good night. A warm breeze blew off the lake, pattering the leaves of the vine and the sycamore beside the veranda. In the twilight I thought I could hear the merry tinkling of bells.
“Write to me, Disa,” she said suddenly. “Anything that comes to mind. It doesn’t matter what.”
The following morning was warm, the air a hazy yellow, as we drove away from the house after breakfasting with Marilyn and her husband in the kitchen. I waved to them through the rear window and resolved to write to her on the way to Iceland.
&nbs
p; I was awakened this morning by a crash as the chambermaid dropped a tray on the floor outside my door. It was nearly eight o’clock. Someone came to help her, a man from the sound of his voice, and they talked in low voices as they hurriedly cleared up pieces of glass, teaspoons and crockery. Something must have upset the girl, as I hadn’t been aware of any motion. Perhaps this is her first voyage.
This incident reminded me of the old waiter at Boulestin’s restaurant and I decided to put my memories down on paper and send them to little Marilyn, as my promise to write to her was still uppermost in my mind. I sat up in bed; I was feeling relaxed and when I saw the grayness outside and the lowering sky it didn’t occur to me to get up. I felt contented, and even though the memories of the first months at Boulestin’s all seemed to crowd in on me at once, this didn’t disturb my peace of mind.
To the eyes of a girl from Kopasker, the voyage to Liverpool in 1936 was quite an adventure, and the train journey to London was no less strange and unfamiliar. This morning, as I recalled those days, what cheered me up most was the memory of the way Boulestin and Mrs. Brown welcomed me. I was astonished to see my employer at the station and had difficulty in finding the right words. He greeted me with a fatherly air, explaining that he had promised his friend Sivertsen to keep an eye on me. Just as I was about to stammer out some words of thanks in my broken English, Mrs. Brown beckoned to a porter and took my arm.
“You’re staying with me,” she said decisively.
“Watch out for the rent she charges!” whispered Boulestin teasingly, and they both burst out laughing.
No, those memories didn’t disturb me, though it was strange that at the same time my thoughts should turn to my brother Kari, who now lives in Seattle in America and whom I haven’t seen since he was a boy. Perhaps it was Father’s letter that reminded me of him.
“Kari has been accepted by a respected university in the United States,” he wrote to me after I had been at Boulestin’s for about six months. “He’s way ahead of his contemporaries and it looks as if he’ll graduate top of his year from the Akureyri High School this spring.”
The Journey Home: A Novel Page 6
