The Journey Home: A Novel (6 page)

7

9 Gardast.
October 17, 1935

Dearest Mother,

We’ve been back at school for one and a half weeks now. Our new classroom
is sunnier and warmer than last year. It’s on the top floor and there’s a view out
of the window from where we sit. We’re learning the same subjects as last year
with the addition of commodities studies. It is unbelievably boring, but I don’t
want to burden you by saying any more about that or about bookkeeping.

I haven’t told you yet that the first thing I saw when the ship docked was
Nuna. She waved and yelled, “Disa, are you back?” And dashed over to me
as soon as I came ashore.

“You’ve lost weight over the summer,” she said. “You’re almost unrecognizable.”

Since then I’ve heard the same thing from several other people. This
evening I’ll be able to pick up the hat that’s being altered. Joka went over to
Hafnarfjordur to buy us slippers. Apparently, you can get really good shoes in
Hafnarfjordur.

Anyway, I can’t think of anything else at the moment. Do give my love to
the girls.

Love from,

Your daughter Disa

P.S. It’s true that I’ve started helping out in the kitchen at Hotel Borg. I
completely forgot to tell you when I last wrote. I had a stroke of luck as Mrs.
Olsen knows the chef, Mr. Sivertsen, who offered me work on Friday and Saturday evenings. I know I’m going to learn a lot from him. Last weekend fish
soup and steak were on the menu. This Saturday there’s a banquet for some
Danish officials who are on a visit here in town. Sivertsen is going to cook
goose for them, with ptarmigan broth for the starter. I can’t wait.

You mustn’t worry about this affecting my studies. Most of the other girls
spend Friday and Saturday evenings at the cinema or skating.

8

I didn’t sleep a wink the night after little Marilyn left. Around midnight a storm blew up and the branches of the ancient poplar rapped against the gable of the house while the rain lashed my window. The poplar had always given me the impression that it was kindly disposed toward me, often seeming to acknowledge me when I was out for a walk, as if it knew me. All kinds of birds perched in its boughs and one summer I remember there being as many as three nests at once. The community was surprisingly a harmonious one. But now as the tree beat relentlessly against the house, I was filled with unease, for it suddenly felt as if someone was in desperate need of my help.

There had been a coolness between Marilyn and me ever since our talk in the conservatory and as I lay awake I began to wonder whether I had been unjust to her. Had I reacted out of jealousy? I asked myself. Was I inconsiderate to her? Should I have congratulated her instead of trying to make her see that what she thought was love would only bring her unhappiness in the long run? I sat up in bed and asked myself again: was there something else behind my words which I couldn’t put my finger on?

I tried to keep calm but the noise of the storm frightened me and I thought I saw lightning flicker in the gap between the curtains. Shortly afterward I heard a distant clap of thunder. I resolved to think over the chain of events objectively as if I had been a bystander, uninvolved. I came to the same conclusion as before: that my reaction had above all been motivated by concern for her, though I couldn’t hide the fact that I might also have been thinking of myself. She had been closer to me than almost anyone else, and I couldn’t contemplate how I would manage without her. I had taken care of her as if she was my own daughter. Which is why I felt she had been so inconsiderate to spring such a decision on me out of the blue.

No, there was no doubt that she had let me down, and I made sure she was aware of the fact, deliberately saying to Sean Truelove in her hearing: “Some people think about no one but themselves.”

Shortly afterward she offered to stay longer. I turned down her offer, saying I didn’t want to cause her any further inconvenience.

All things considered, I believe I treated her honorably, though I might have been a bit sharp on a couple of occasions. I really do believe that it was with her welfare in mind that I reacted as I did. At least, I hope so.

So passed the night after her departure. Toward morning the wind dropped and at daybreak I put on my dressing gown and opened the window. I was exhausted but the breeze was too warm to refresh me. I went down to the kitchen and lit a cigarillo to calm my mind. The sunlight crept toward me across the floor and I walked to meet it, opening the door and stepping outside. A pleasant scent rose from the earth after the rain, and the grass had turned green overnight. A bird flew by with a caterpillar in its beak and vanished from sight behind the east wing.

I walked over to the poplar and leaned against it, my head still full of the night’s preoccupations. As always, the tree’s presence was soothing, but this time I felt as if there was something it wanted to say to me.

9

9 Gardast.
March 12, 1936

Dearest Mother,

I went back down to the telephone exchange yesterday, but gave up after an
hour. They still hadn’t got through to Kopasker.

As you can imagine, I haven’t been able to think about anything else since
our conversation. You mustn’t think that I’m ungrateful to you and Father for
having fixed me up with a job at the bank. I know it wasn’t easy and don’t
doubt that many other girls would welcome the job. But after long thought and
many sleepless nights I have come to the same decision as before.

It would do no one any favors if I turned my back on my existing plans to
go abroad and learn more about cookery. Mr. Sivertsen said yesterday that he
was sure I would get a place at either the Angleterre in Copenhagen or at his
friend’s restaurant in London. Just think, Mother: Copenhagen or London! I
was so excited that I flung my arms round his neck and kissed him right on the
cheek. He has been terribly kind and considerate to me. And he’s expecting an
answer very soon.

Don’t be angry with me, Mother. Please don’t, because you know how
much I care about you and Father.

Love from,

Disa

10

Father looked exhausted. He was first down the gangway, stopping midway to peer around, but didn’t see me even though I was standing no more than ten yards away from him, waving. He looked desperately tired, and didn’t move on until the woman behind nudged him and whispered something in his ear.

“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.”