Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - The Silence of the Sea

‘No, we weren’t.’ Thóra smiled at him. ‘Norway can come up in conversation without its having anything to do with you.’ She studied him, aware that he was transforming with terrifying speed from the child she had brought into the world. There were still glimpses of the old Gylfi in the young man before her, but the next stage in his development to adulthood would doubtless be even more dramatic, and Thóra realised that if he did go abroad for a year, he’d probably be unrecognisable when he returned. Perhaps that was why she was digging her heels in. She wanted him to grow up, to live his life, take risks. But she didn’t want to miss it, any more than she would want to watch him walk the tightrope without a safety net.

‘You do know how close Norway is, don’t you, Mum?’ Gylfi had obviously read her mind.

‘No.’ She would just have to face facts. The little family would move abroad and learn to stand on their own two feet and she would have to resign herself to going through airport security every time she wanted to visit her firstborn and her grandchild. ‘How close is it?’

Gylfi looked evasive. ‘I’m not absolutely sure. But it’s not far. And you can visit Duty Free.’

So if they did go, at least she’d have the compensation of cheap alcohol and chocolate. ‘Great. I hadn’t thought of that.’ Gylfi’s relieved smile indicated that he had failed to detect the sarcasm. ‘When are you expecting to hear?’ They might turn him down and then all her worrying would have been for nothing. She had heard that people spent most of their time getting anxious about things that would never happen, but then again the statistic probably applied to people like her mother who were forever lying awake at night, fretting over the silliest things. Whatever was reported on the news immediately constituted a major risk to her mother’s loved ones. In her mind, a national campaign against speeding meant that her family were all more or less doomed, either because they might suddenly take to driving recklessly themselves or because they would fall victim to some crazed road hog. When the president of the Ukraine was poisoned with dioxin, her mother was convinced that Thóra would accidentally buy a canned drink destined for a foreign dignitary and suffer the same fate, and so on. No wonder Thóra had kept her parents in ignorance of Gylfi’s plans; she had enough trouble coping with her own anxieties without having to put up with her mother’s as well.

‘I’m not sure. If I don’t hear by the beginning of next week, Dad’s going to call them for me. He’s got the flat all ready for us, apparently, so we could go over as soon as school finishes. It won’t take us long to pack.’

Thóra closed her eyes and counted up to ten. Her son had never packed so much as a pair of socks himself; she had always done it for him. But it was not this that caused the anger to flare up inside her, since she had only herself to blame. No, her main gripe was with her ex-husband. Why did he have to stick his oar in? If he had kept out of it, no one would ever have dreamt of such an idea; Gylfi would now be applying to university and Sigga would be enjoying the fact she was a year younger and still in the sixth form. But in fairness Thóra knew her ex meant well; doubtless he was lonely in Norway and wanted the company of his only son. It couldn’t be easy to spend every other month alone in a foreign country. ‘You can’t plan a long stay abroad at such short notice. Don’t forget that although you two may be able to rough it, the same isn’t true of Orri.’ She made an effort to compose her features. Lecturing the boy and laying down the law for him was exactly what she had promised Matthew not to do. Gylfi was responsible for his own life and the sooner she accepted the fact, the better. Perhaps she should be directing her anger at herself, not his father. She had often wished her son would take more risks, live life to the full. ‘Anyway, we’ll see. There’s no need to make a fuss about it now.’

‘There’s no need to make a fuss about it at all,’ muttered Gylfi, flopping down on the sofa where Thóra had been lying. Sóley didn’t react, as if it was nothing to her that her brother and nephew were leaving the country.

The cat turned her head in a leisurely manner and yawned at the brother and sister, utterly indifferent to any undercurrents.

A metallic female voice announced a storm warning for the south-east Iceland shipping area. Thóra had lost count of the number of times she had heard these words but only now that she had become interested in boats did the full implications sink in: she thought about those out on the ocean, pictured waves breaking over bows, vessels plunging in the heaving waters. One thing was certain; she had no inner sailor struggling to escape. ‘Turn here.’ She directed Matthew down to the harbour side. ‘He’s going to meet us by the yacht.’ She glanced at the clock on the dashboard and saw that they were early. ‘Let’s park and wait. He’s bound to need help getting up the gangplank so it would be better to go together.’

‘The lock can’t have been much good if someone’s managed to break in.’ Matthew backed into a parking space to give them a view over the harbour. ‘And it’s asking for trouble, leaving the ship unguarded at night over the weekend.’ Fannar had rung Thóra to tell her that a port security officer had reported a break-in on board the previous night. The police had found no sign of any theft or vandalism, and after performing his own inspection Fannar had concurred with their findings. Yet from his tone it was evident that he was concerned about this burglary in which nothing had been stolen. Thóra was pleased he had rung her and even happier when he offered her the keys in case she wanted to survey the scene for herself. She accepted with alacrity and asked if he would mind her taking along Snævar, the crew member with the broken leg, who might well notice some detail that those unfamiliar with the vessel had overlooked. After the briefest pause, Fannar had given his consent and told her where to pick up the keys.

‘Do you think it’s all right for me to come too?’ Matthew asked. The water streaming down the windscreen blurred their view of the yacht, making it look as if she was moving.

‘Of course. You’re here as my assistant.’ Thóra turned on the windscreen-wipers. ‘I’m sure it’ll be good to have you there if Snævar needs help. I tend to forget about things like that and would probably charge off without thinking and leave him behind.’

Condensation crept up the glass and Thóra was about to ask Matthew to switch on the heater when Snævar appeared in an old banger that could have done with a clean. ‘I thought fishermen were well paid.’ Matthew couldn’t disguise his disgust as the car drove up. It was covered in dents, some of them rusty.

‘Maybe he’s a rally driver.’

‘I doubt it.’ Matthew’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Rally cars have souped-up engines. That’s nothing but a rust-bucket. It wouldn’t make it a hundred metres from the starting line.’

‘Shh. He might hear you.’ Thóra watched as Snævar opened the car door and, after a considerable tussle to pull a plastic bag over his cast, clambered out. They walked over to the yacht together and waited while Thóra dug out the keys. She was struck by how out of place the elegant vessel looked in the dismal rain, as if she should have been protected by covers. The lavishly appointed interior only intensified this impression, especially when Snævar managed to locate the light switch. However, the dim illumination did little to enhance the expensive furnishings, whose sheen was now obscured by a layer of dust. Thóra looked around, wondering what it would be like to be cooped up in here for days at a time. Of course it was impressively spacious in comparison with most yachts, but even so there was not much room; staying here for long periods would probably be like living under house arrest in a small chateau. ‘Is it really much fun cruising on a boat like this?’