The Flight of Gemma Hardy (38 page)

In fact the meat had tasted of fish, but I said yes, it was good, and that I was glad I hadn't known sooner. As we walked, Hallie insisted on pointing out various sites. “I know you are not a tourist,” she said, “but I must show you my city.”

We passed a lake with swans and mallards, then an olive-coloured church: the Dominican cathedral. In the nearby square Hallie pointed out a statue of a man in a frock coat; I did not catch his name. A street lined with shops led us to a large white house—“the strongest house in Iceland,” Hallie said. Once a prison, it was now used by the government. Slowly we climbed a hill towards another statue. This man wore a horned helmet and carried a shield. Ingólfur Arnarson was the first settler, Hallie told me. Like him, we stopped to gaze out over the harbour. My job was to admire the view while she got her breath back.

Two more streets brought us to an official-looking grey building. Inside Hallie waved me to a chair and, taking my notebook, approached the desk. I heard my father's name, and the woman behind the desk—she had the same broad cheeks as Hallie—turned to look at me. She disappeared and returned, disappeared and returned. Periodically Hallie asked me questions: The month and year of his death? Was I his only child? Did he have siblings? The woman consulted a large black book, then another. She took my notebook and dashed off a couple of lines.

“What's happening?” I asked Hallie. She told me to wait.

After nearly half an hour she came and sat beside me. “It is possible I will drop dead on the way home,” she said, “so let me tell you what we know. Your father was born in June 1919 in the village of Stykkisholmur on the Snaefellsnes peninsula. His father was a fisherman. He had an older sister, Kristjana. His parents were both dead when he died. See”—she held out my notebook—“I have written down the names here.”

“So I have an aunt,” I said.

“If she still lives,” said Hallie. “Why didn't she take you in?”

“My uncle promised my mother that if anything happened he would look after me.”

“Perhaps she knew the future,” Hallie said, turning the thinnest of her rings. “Iceland is famous for people who see trolls and elves. You must remember, not all relatives are good relatives. I myself have some cousins who are villainous and a sister who wishes me posthumous.”

“I have some Scottish cousins who feel like that about me,” I said. “So how can we find her?”

“We will go and look in the telephone book. But first I must sit for a few more minutes.”

Since the previous evening I had revised my idea of Hallie's age several times. At first sight I had taken her for sixty or even seventy. Then, over supper, her kindness and energy had made her seem younger. But as we walked into the city she had placed her feet with the care of an older person. Now, seeing her sink back in the chair, I offered to find someone else to help me at the post office.

“No, no, now it is my quest too, and the post is on our way home.”

Soon she gathered herself and led the way back down the hill, past the bronze warrior, to the post office. While she searched the telephone directory, I watched the Icelanders come and go. If I had an aunt, and if my aunt had children, then one of these oblivious people might be my cousin. Hallie found no listing for her in the directory, but she told me not to worry. Many people in Iceland did not have a phone. Someone would know someone in Stykkisholmur who had known my family.

As we walked back through another large square, she drew my attention to a building with a carved falcon perched on either end of the ridge-pole. Long ago, she said, it had been the King of Denmark's falconry. I told her the story from the saga of Helga's father's dream and the various bird suitors killing each other.

“I did not know that,” she said, “but it sounds most Icelandic.”

Back at her house, Hallie announced that, now that we had the name of the village, she was going to consult her neighbours again.

While she went to call on them, I ate some bread and cheese and paced my small room. I felt like running through the streets, calling my aunt's name until someone answered. Then I recalled Hallie's comment. “Please,” I said uselessly, “let her be alive.” Thoughts of my new aunt led to my old aunt, whom I had scarcely considered since my visit. Was she still sitting in her armchair, I wondered, or had she moved on to her final resting place? I tried to send my question into the universe, a long, slender wire snaking its way towards Yew House, but nothing came back.

At last I heard the front door open. I hurried to meet Hallie. Standing in the dim hall, smiling, she announced that one of her neighbours knew someone on the peninsula who knew my aunt Kristjana.

“She's alive,” I said, clapping my hands.

“She was last week.”

Messages had been relayed; replies were awaited.

That evening Hallie drew a family tree for my father's side of the family, with many question marks. Had my grandparents had siblings? Probably. Did my aunt have children? We would find out soon. I stared in wonder at my own name at the end of this tracery of branching lines. In one way or another I was connected to these people.

Hallie put a dash beside my name. “This is where your husband's name will go. Below will be your children, if you are so blessed.”

“I'll never get married,” I said.

“Forgive me,” said Hallie. “Old women are presumptuous. We like to see trees grow.”

T
he next morning I laid the table and put on water for coffee. Then I sat down to study the Icelandic-English dictionary I had discovered in Hallie's bookshelves the night before. I copied out the numbers from one to ten and the words for
yes
,
no
,
thank you
,
good morning
,
sorry
, and
bathroom
. I could not find a word for
please
. When Hallie at last appeared, I greeted her. “
Gooan daginn
.”

She laughed and corrected my pronunciation. “You made the table.
Takk fyrir
. Thank you. I am sorry to be late. This is the trouble with being old. Today my legs wanted to stay in bed. But soon”—she must have seen my anxious expression—“I will go and ask if there is news.”

Over breakfast I entertained her with my efforts to pronounce various words. I was practising
left
and
right
—
vinstir
,
haegri
—when, in the hallway, the phone gave an odd monosyllabic ring. Hallie went to answer. I heard the rise and fall of her voice and twice my own name. After nearly ten minutes she returned.

“Fjola,” she exclaimed. “Your aunt is found. She still lives in Stykkisholmur, where she and your father grew up.”

Delight swept me out of my seat. “That's wonderful. That's fantastic. I have an aunt and you know where she lives. Can I go and see her?”

“Tomorrow. You have missed the bus today. She is eager to see you.”

“That's wonderful,” I repeated.

“Wonderful,” agreed Hallie. “There are two things she asked me to tell you.” She held up her hand with its gold rings, and I caught a note of warning. “First, she is blind; she lost her sight a number of years ago. Second, she speaks no English. Happily her daughter, Berglind, can translate. She will meet the bus.”

For months, I had daydreamed about finding someone who would look at me and see my parents; who would find my mother in my ears, my father in the shape of my hands, both of them in my straight brown hair and grey eyes. But my aunt might never have seen my mother and had last seen my father many years ago. It would be I who had to study her features for evidence of kinship. I remembered a book I had read about Helen Keller and how, when she met someone new, she ran her fingers over the person's face. Perhaps my aunt would do that.

“She can talk,” I said. “She knew my parents.”

We agreed that I would return to stay with Hallie the night before my flight back to Glasgow. That way I could tell her what had happened and be at the airport in good time.

The remainder of the day passed in helping Hallie—I weeded her small garden and cleaned the windows—and in visiting the Hallgrimskirkja. “You can be sure,” she said, “that your father went there at least once.” As I walked up the road to the church, it got bigger and bigger, and when I stepped inside I could not help marvelling at how bright it was, and how empty. Like the landscapes I had passed through on my way from the airport, it was utterly bare.

D
uring the six-hour journey the bus-driver stopped more times than I could count for people to get on and off, or to be sick, or to go to the bathroom. Out of the window I saw the twisted black rocks, the pointed shapes of old volcanoes, herds of brown and black ponies, and small sheep grazing on the brown grass. The occasional field shone emerald green in contrast to the greys and blacks. The countryside was wilder and emptier than any I had ever seen—for miles we saw no other cars, no houses, no animals, no birds—and yet it was here that I'd come to find my family. One of our stops was beside a road running east into a broad valley.

“Reykholt,” called the driver, and I recognised the name of the village Archie had mentioned where the saga writer lived. Would he, I wondered, ever come to Iceland?

Stykkisholmur was not like the Scottish villages I knew, houses standing shoulder to shoulder along neatly organised roads. Instead the brightly coloured houses were fitted into the landscape wherever the rocks permitted. Even on the main road there were wide gaps. The bus rounded one last corner and stopped beside a small grey church. For several minutes I gave no thought to the fact that I was in my father's birthplace, my first home; I was glad simply to be on steady ground. I set my suitcase on the steps of the church and walked up and down, taking deep breaths. When I was able to look around, I saw that the harbour, filled with boats, was only a hundred yards away. I sat down and got out the lunch Hallie had made me.

I was finishing the last sandwich when I heard the sound of a horse's hooves. Round the corner came a young woman riding a brown pony, waving. “Hallo, hallo,” she cried. “I am Berglind.”

She rode over, slid off the pony, and held out her hand. “Hallo, Fjola.”

For a moment I simply stared at her wide grey eyes, her fair, freckled skin. Mistaking my silence, she started to apologise. “I wanted to meet you like a hero, but Isolfur is lazy. He wouldn't trot.” Her brown hair was almost the same colour as the pony's and she wore it in a single thick braid.

“No, it's fine,” I said. “I was just surprised. I'm not used to being called Fjola.”

She laughed. “We will have lessons to say your name. Do you remember me?”

I shook my head. “I don't remember you, or my aunt, or my parents. I hoped that coming here would bring back memories but it hasn't, so far.”

“Perhaps you remember,” said Berglind, “but not in your brain. Will you ride?”

I refused as politely as I could and she said we would all three walk. She picked up my suitcase and, calling to Isolfur, not bothering to hold his reins, set off. I have a cousin, I thought, who acts like Pippi Longstocking. Loping along beside her, I asked how old she was. Twenty-six. Did she have brothers or sisters? Two brothers who worked in Reykjavik. Did she remember my parents? Yes, she used to go sailing with them on calm days.

“Your mother had very blue eyes,” she said, “and she could touch her nose with her tongue. Can you?”

“I don't think so. Do you remember other things about her?”

Berglind swung my suitcase. “Come on, Isolfur,” she called over her shoulder. “She made English custard from a tin. I can smell it. She had a book of empty pages, and she drew birds and plants and fish. She had a blue dress she liked. Once I spilled juice on the skirt and she said it was all right. She and I taught you to walk—you walked from her to me, and back again. I see you have not forgotten your skill.”

I laughed, delighted by both the fact and her phrasing. “You speak such good English.”

“Your mother was my first teacher. Then I studied at school. Now I have the radio. I am happy to practise on you. We do not get many visitors in Stykkisholmur.”

“I hope it's not rude to ask, but why is your mother blind? Was she in an accident?”

“No. It happened over a few months. Our neighbours say it is because she sees other things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Weather. People. Last week she told me we would meet a new relative soon.”

So, even before I had visited Archie and stolen the money, my aunt had known I was coming. I was still grappling with this news when Berglind pointed out a house. “Where we live. And those”—she indicated two brown ponies grazing nearby—“are Isolfur's brothers.”

“Do you live here too?”

“My husband and I both.” Then she looked over at me. “Sorry. I forget you have no parents to live with. Maybe that is why you are so small.”

Inside the house a woman wearing a white blouse and faded blue trousers set aside her knitting and rose to meet me. “Welcome, Fjola,” she said. “I am your aunt Kristjana.”

She too wore her hair in a single braid that hung almost to her waist. She stepped forward, holding out her hand. I stared at her wonderingly. Beneath her unlined forehead, her pale blue eyes were very still. Ignoring her hand, I reached to hug her. She smelled of soap and of something that reminded me of the sea.

T
he phrases she uttered when we met turned out to be Kristjana's entire stock of English; Berglind had taught them to her that morning. As for my uncle Ulfur—his name meant
wolf
—and Berglind's husband, Gisli, they both knew only
hallo
, which was the same in Icelandic. The men worked together, repairing boats. They came home at six, and we ate lamb stew at the kitchen table. When Berglind was not translating, I looked around and saw that the hems of the curtains were frayed, the table scarred, the plates and cutlery well used. My aunt and her family did not have much money.