The Quarry

‘OK, so you’ve arrived. You were going to go up to the studio, weren’t you?’

‘To see Bremer,’ said Jerry.

‘I understand. You’re at Bremer’s now.’

But Jerry hesitated, and Per went on, ‘Haven’t you seen Hans Bremer? Wasn’t he going to pick you up?’

‘Not here.’

Per wondered if Jerry was drunk and confused, or merely confused.

‘Go home then, Jerry,’ he said firmly. ‘Go the station and hop on the next bus back to Kristianstad.’

‘Can’t.’

‘Yes you can, Jerry. Off you go.’

There was a silence once more. ‘Fetch me, Pelle?’

Per hesitated. ‘No. It’s impossible.’

Silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Pelle … Pelle?’

Per clutched the receiver more tightly. ‘I haven’t got time, Jerry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got Jesper here, and Nilla will be coming soon … I have to check with them first.’

But his father had put the phone down.

Per knew where the village of Ryd was. Two hours by car – that was how long it would take from Oland. Too long, really. But the conversation with Jerry had left him uneasy.

Keep an eye on him, his mother had once said.

Anita had never referred to her ex-husband by name. And it was Per who had kept in touch with Jerry and told her what he was up to, year after year. The trips he had made, the women he had met. It was an obligation he had never asked for.

He had promised Anita that he would keep an eye on Jerry. But the promise had been made on certain conditions, one of which was that he never saw his father alone.

Per decided: he would go down to Ryd.

Jesper could stay here. He and Nilla had only met their grandfather on a handful of occasions, for a few hours each time, and that was no doubt for the best.

Not letting his children associate with Jerry had been one of Per’s best decisions.

11

Vendela quickly realized that her curiosity about their new neighbours in the village was not mutual.

When she went round to invite people to the party, she started by trying to find houses in the rest of the village that were actually inhabited. It was hopeless. She walked along the coast road that swept around the deep inlet, but didn’t see a soul. There was nothing but closed-up houses with shutters covering the windows – and when she rang the bell at those without shutters, no one answered. From time to time she got the feeling that somebody was at home, but didn’t want to show themselves.

It wasn’t until she reached the southern end of the village and knocked on the door of the little house next to the kiosk that somebody answered. A short, white-haired man with sooty hands, as if he were busy with a chimney or a boat engine. Vendela decided not to shake hands.

‘Hagman, John Hagman,’ he said when she introduced herself.

When she told him about the party, he merely nodded. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘So you live up by the quarry?’

‘That’s right, we’ve—’

‘Do you need any help in the garden? I can dig and weed and rake. I can do most things.’

‘That sounds good,’ said Vendela with a laugh. ‘That might be just what we need.’

Hagman nodded and closed the door.

Vendela looked around and thought that John Hagman ought to take care of his own garden first. It had grown wild.

She headed north again, back towards the quarry, with a faint yearning for her medicine cabinet. But she wouldn’t open it today.

She turned off towards the neighbours’ house. It was about the same size as theirs, but the walls were made of pale wood, and the windows were tall and narrow. The garden looked closer to being finished than theirs too; fresh topsoil had been spread and raked where the lawn was to be, and someone had found the time to sow grass seed.

The owners were at home. A youngish woman in blue dungarees opened the door when Vendela rang the bell. She had short blonde hair and greeted Vendela politely, but, just like John Hagman, she didn’t seem particularly pleased to have a visitor.

The woman’s name was Kurdin, Vendela learned. Marie Kurdin.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ she said with a nervous laugh.

‘No, but I was working on a wall.’

‘Are you wallpapering?’ asked Vendela.

‘Painting.’

As Vendela asked her to the party, Marie Kurdin’s mind seemed to be elsewhere, perhaps on her drying paint.

‘Fine,’ she said quietly, her tone neither friendly nor unfriendly. ‘Christer and I and little Paul will be there; we’ll bring some wine.’

‘Excellent. Look forward to seeing you.’

Vendela turned away, feeling as if she’d failed. Not that there had been anything wrong or embarrassing about the conversation, but she had hoped to be made more welcome. At times like these she longed more than ever to be out on the alvar – just to head out there. To the elf stone, in spite of everything that had happened there.

But she forced herself to stay, and walked over to the last house by the quarry. The little cottage at the northern end. The Saab was parked outside, and Vendela stopped, wondering if she really ought to knock on the door. In the end she did.

The door was opened immediately by the man who had been driving the car, the man who had flattened Max. He looked more friendly now.

‘Hi there,’ said Vendela.

‘Hi,’ said the man.

She held out her hand and introduced herself, and found out that the man was called Per Morner. She laughed nervously. ‘I just want to explain something about that business in the car park, my husband got a bit—’

‘Forget it,’ said Per Morner. ‘We were all a bit worked up.’

He stopped speaking, so Vendela went on: ‘I’m just going round saying hello to people.’ She laughed again. ‘I mean, somebody has to make a start.’

Per just nodded.

‘And I had an idea,’ said Vendela. ‘I thought we could have a bit of a get-together.’

‘Right … when were you thinking of?’

‘Wednesday,’ said Vendela. ‘Would that be OK for you and your wife?’

‘That’s fine, but I don’t have a wife. Just two children.’

‘Oh, I see … Are you around on Wednesday?’

Per nodded. ‘I have to go to the mainland now, just for the day. My son Jesper will be staying here. Do you want us to bring something?’

Vendela shook her head. ‘No, we’ll provide the food, but feel free to bring something to drink.’

Per Morner nodded, but didn’t seem to be looking forward to the party.

Perhaps he hadn’t forgotten the quarrel with Max, whatever he might say. Or maybe he just had other things on his mind.

When Vendela got home, Aloysius had settled in his basket again. She stroked his back quickly and went into the living room to carry on writing in her notebook.

Max was out at the back of the house, dressed in a country-style tweed suit. A photographer had come over from Kalmar that morning and was staying for a couple of days to take pictures of Max for the cookery book – which