‘And your husband?’
‘Oh, he can’t control him. He just sits at home now, watching golf on tellie all day.’
‘Is he retired?’ Vigdís asked.
‘He used to work in a bank, in the back office. He never got paid very much, and they made him redundant in March. He’s tried to get another job, but he’s too old, they say. Fifty-one. So it’s all down…’ She blinked and swayed alarmingly. ‘It’s all down to me.’
‘Are the police losing their jobs?’ asked Vigdís, in English. ‘They are in Reykjavík.’
Árni translated into slurred Icelandic.
‘No,’ Sharon said. ‘But they are going to screw us on our pensions, I’m sure of that.’ She blinked. ‘Hang on. You do speak English.’
Vigdís glanced at Magnus and Árni. She giggled. ‘Only when I’m drunk.’
Árni translated into Icelandic faithfully. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said in English, looking perplexed.
‘Why don’t you speak English when you are sober?’ Sharon asked.
‘Because everyone expects me to speak English,’ Vigdís said in a strong Icelandic accent. ‘Because I am black nobody believes I am an Icelander.’
‘I had noticed you look a little different from all these others,’ said Sharon. ‘But I didn’t want to say anything.’
Vigdís smiled. ‘Foreigners are OK. It is the Icelanders that are a problem. Some of them think that it doesn’t matter where you were born, what language you speak, unless your ancestors, all your ancestors, arrived here in a longship a thousand years ago, then you are a foreigner.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Sharon. ‘One of yours didn’t.’
‘My father was an American soldier of some kind at Keflavík air base. I never met him. My mother never talks about him. But because of him people don’t believe that I am who I am.’
‘I believe you are an Icelander, Vigdís,’ Sharon said. ‘A very nice Icelander. And a good copper. That’s important, you know.’
‘Have you ever been to America?’ Ingileif asked. They were all speaking English now.
‘Not yet.’ Vigdís tried and failed to suppress a smile.
Ingileif noticed. ‘But?’
‘I’m going next week. Tuesday. To Nýja Jórvík. New York.’
‘What are you going to see?’ Árni asked.
‘Who are you going to see?’ Ingileif corrected him.
‘A guy,’ Vigdís admitted.
‘Not an American, surely?’ said Magnus.
‘No, an Icelander,’ said Vigdís. Her smile broadened. ‘He’s the brother of an old friend from Keflavík. He works for a TV company. I met him when he was visiting his family here over the summer.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Piper.
‘How are you going to deal with the language issues?’ Magnus asked.
‘She’ll be OK,’ said Árni. ‘As long as she stays drunk all the time, she can speak English.’
‘I’ll have to think about that,’ said Vigdís. ‘You’re right, it’s an important point of principle.’
A phone chirped from somewhere. Everyone glanced at each other, then Sharon reached into her bag. ‘Hello.’
She listened and straightened up. ‘This is DS Piper,’ she said, carefully. Magnus felt sorry for her. It was always tough getting a call from the station when you had had a few.
‘Yes, Charlie is my son… You are holding him for what?… Tooting police station?… He did what to an officer?… Did you call my husband?… The problem is I’m not in the country at the moment, I’m in Iceland… If I were you I would lock him up and throw away the key.’ She hung up.
‘Trouble at home?’ asked Ingileif.
‘Charlie is in trouble again. He thinks he can rely on me to bail him out, literally. But not this time. This time he’s going to get what’s coming to him.’ She leaned back into the bench and closed her eyes.
Her phone rang again. She ignored it. ‘Is she asleep?’ said Ingileif.
Magnus picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak to my mum?’ It was a young male voice.
‘She’s kinda busy right now,’ said Magnus, glancing at the woman lolling opposite him.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ the voice shouted. ‘Are you shagging my mum? I want to speak to her!’
‘One moment.’ He put his hand over his phone. ‘Sharon? It’s your son.’
Sharon opened her eyes. ‘You know what? Tell him I’ll talk to him in the morning.’ She closed her eyes again.
‘Night, night, Charlie,’ Magnus said. ‘Sleep well.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
May 1940
THE SUN WAS shining over Ólafsvík as Benedikt rode Skjona out of the town back towards Hraun. He had been representing his family at his cousin Thorgils’s confirmation – his mother couldn’t afford to spend the time away from the farm.
The talk in Ólafsvík had been all about the invasion of Iceland the previous week by the British. Opinion was divided. Some people thought it was better to be invaded by the British than the Germans. Others saw no reason why Iceland couldn’t be left alone, they had no part in a war fought on a continent a thousand kilometres away. But everyone was hoping for a boom to match that of the Kaiser’s war. Fish, wool and lamb prices were already rising, and people thought that with the British around, Icelandic exports would be protected.
Of course no one had actually seen a British soldier. They were all two hundred kilometres away in Reykjavík. Benedikt smiled to himself. He could imagine Hallgrímur preparing himself to fight off any British invaders that tried to cross the lava field to Bjarnarhöfn.
Hallgrímur and Benedikt, now aged sixteen and fourteen, barely spoke any more. They were polite to each other, especially in front of others from their respective families, but they had stopped playing together that winter. Gunnar, Hallgrímur’s father, was a frequent visitor to Hraun. He was a good neighbour to Benedikt’s mother, in particular helping fix things around the farm. He was careful to teach Benedikt while he worked. Benedikt hated these times. He knew that there were a lot of important skills he could learn from Gunnar, but he could not bear to treat his neighbour like a helpful uncle.
He preferred talking to Hallgrímur’s mother, but she was much less often seen at Hraun.
Benedikt rode Skjona down to the beach, and set off at a gallop. Horse and rider thrilled as they splashed through the surf and the black sand. A few kilometres in front of them rose Búland’s Head, a massive shoulder of rock and grass that jutted out into the sea. A broad cloud draped the top of the mountain, and seemed to be slipping down towards the water.
Benedikt rode back to the road and the bridge over the River Fródá. This was where Thurídur had lived, the beautiful woman whom Björn of Breidavík had wooed a thousand years before. The same Björn who had defied the great chieftain Snorri, and who had ended up in America amongst the Skraelings.
But Benedikt’s father hadn’t escaped. He was still lying at the bottom of Swine Lake, or at least his bones were.
And neither Benedikt nor Hallgrímur had told anyone what they had heard that day.
Benedikt knew that his father had been wrong to betray his mother, but he didn’t hold that against him. His mother had been robbed of her husband, which was much worse. She was a tough woman, and she had coped well. Widowhood was common in Iceland, many husbands lost their lives at sea, a few on the fells. There were four children and Benedikt and Hildur, his elder sister, had done all they could to help her. But Benedikt was not a natural farmer like Hallgrímur, or like his father.
It was all Gunnar’s fault.
It was funny, for the couple of days that he had been staying with his aunt and uncle in Ólafsvík, he had forgotten about Gunnar. The rage, which constantly seemed to be churning within his breast, had disappeared.