The Quarry

When she looked up, she saw a closed gate in an old stone wall. Behind it was a small garden, with someone sitting on the pale-yellow lawn. A man in a deckchair.

As Vendela crept closer she could see that the man was very old, wrinkled and almost bald, with a fringe of white hair at the back of his head. He had a thick scarf knotted beneath his chin, a blanket over his legs and a slender book on his knee. His eyes were closed, his chin resting on his chest, and he looked completely at ease, like a man who had finished his work here in this life and was satisfied with everything he had achieved.

It could have been her father sitting there – but of course Henry had always been too restless to sit in the garden.

Vendela thought the man was asleep, but as she stopped by the gate he raised his head and looked at her.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ she called out.

‘No more than anybody else,’ replied the man, tucking the book beneath the blanket.

He had a quiet yet powerful voice, the voice of someone who was used to being in charge. A bit like Max.

The tablets made Vendela more courageous than usual; she opened the gate and went in.

‘I’m sitting here looking for butterflies,’ said the man as she walked towards him. ‘And thinking.’

It wasn’t a joke, but Vendela still laughed – and regretted it immediately.

‘I’m Vendela,’ she said quickly. ‘Vendela Larsson.’

‘And my name is Davidsson, Gerlof Davidsson.’

An unusual name. Vendela didn’t think she’d come across it before.

‘Gerlof … is that German?’

‘I think it was Dutch originally. It’s an old family name.’

‘Do you live here all year round, Gerlof?’

‘I do now. I suppose I’ll be here until they carry me out feet first.’

Vendela laughed again. ‘In that case we’ll be neighbours.’ She pointed back the way she’d come, trying to keep her hand steady. ‘We’ve just moved in over by the quarry, my husband Max and I. We’ll be living here.’

‘I see,’ said Gerlof. ‘But only when the weather’s warm. Not all year round.’

It wasn’t a question.

‘No, not all year round … just in spring and summer.’

She was going to add thank God, but stopped herself. It probably wasn’t very polite to mention that it was too cold and desolate to live on the island in the middle of winter. She’d done it when she was little, and that was quite enough.

Neither of them spoke. There were no butterflies to be seen, but the birds were still singing in the bushes. Vendela closed her eyes and wondered if their nervous twittering was a warning of some kind.

‘Have you settled in?’ asked Gerlof.

Vendela looked up and nodded energetically. ‘Absolutely, I mean it’s so …’ She searched for the right thing to say, ‘… so close to the shore.’

The old man didn’t speak, so Vendela took a deep breath and went on: ‘We were thinking of having a little get-together for everybody in the village. This Wednesday at seven, we thought … It would be nice if you could join us.’

Gerlof looked down at his legs. ‘I’ll come if I can move … it varies from day to day.’

‘Good, excellent.’

Vendela laughed nervously once more and walked back towards the gate. She was hungry now, and the new tablets were making her feel sleepy. But it felt good to be moving across the grass, drifting along like an elf towards the wind and the white sun.

‘Max? Hello?’

Vendela was back home, her voice echoing across the stone floor. There was no reply, but she was so excited by her encounter with Gerlof that she simply carried on calling out, ‘I met this man, an old villager … he’s just fantastic! He lives in a little cottage on the other side of the track. I invited him to our party!’

There was silence for a few seconds, then Max opened the door of his thinking room. He looked at his wife for a few seconds, then asked, ‘What have you taken?’

Vendela met his gaze and straightened up. ‘Nothing … Just a couple of slimming pills.’

‘Nothing to perk you up a bit?’

‘No! I’ve just got spring fever, what’s wrong with that?’

She wanted to turn and walk away, but remained where she was, shaking her head. She tried to stand up straight without swaying, even though the stone floor was moving slightly beneath her feet.

‘Vendela, you were going to cut the dose when we came here. You promised.’

‘I know! And I’m going to go jogging.’

‘Good idea,’ said Max. ‘It’s better than pills.’

‘I’m just feeling really happy,’ Vendela went on, keeping her tone as serious as she could, ‘but it’s nothing to do with any pills. I’m happy because spring is in the air, and because I met this wonderful old man …’

‘Yes, well, you always did like old folk.’ Max rubbed his eyes and turned back to his thinking room. ‘I must get back to work.’

10

The smell of limestone and seaweed, sea and coast. The wind over the shore, the sun shining on the sound, winter and spring meeting in the air above the island.

It was Sunday morning, and Per was standing out on the patio with a broom, wishing that the spring sunshine could reach into all the dark corners of his body. Ernst had built two stone patios along the front and back of the house, one facing south-east and the other north-west, which was clever, because you could either follow the sun from morning until evening, or sit in the shade all day.

He straightened his back and looked out over the rocky shoreline. He knew he should feel happier to be standing here by the sea than he actually did. He wanted to feel peaceful and calm, but his anxiety about Nilla was too strong. Anxiety about what the doctors would find.

There wasn’t much he could do about it; he just had to keep going.

The old patio was made of limestone; it was uneven and full of weeds growing between the slabs, but it was sturdily built. Once Per had swept all the leaves away, he walked to the edge and looked down into the quarry. Nothing was moving, and the stone steps they had built yesterday stood firm, halfway up the rock face. Then he looked over at the new houses to the south, thinking about the new neighbours and their money.

It was certainly worth thinking about. He estimated that the two plots and the houses on them must have cost a couple of million, at least. Perhaps even three, including all the overheads. His new neighbours weren’t short of money, and that was really all he knew about them.

Time to get out Ernst’s garden furniture. It was made of cane, like something you might find on a plantation veranda in the jungle.

The telephone in the kitchen started ringing as he was standing in the doorway with the first chair in his hands.

‘Jesper?’ he shouted. ‘Can you get that?’

He didn’t know where his son was, but there was no response.

The telephone rang again, and after the fourth ring he put the chair down and went to answer it.

‘Per Morner.’

‘Hello?’ said a slurred voice. ‘Pelle?’

It was his father again, of course. Per closed his eyes wearily and thought that Jerry could have afforded to build one of those luxury villas by the quarry. Well, ten or fifteen years ago, anyway. But Per had never seen any of his money, and since the stroke Jerry’s finances were uncertain, to say the least. He was no longer able to work.

‘Where are you calling from, Jerry? Where are you?’

There was a hissing noise on the line before the answer came: ‘Ryd.’