The Quarry (9 page)

‘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 Öland. 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.

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 Mörner. 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 Mörner. ‘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 Mörner 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 had now acquired the title
Good Food to the Max
– and Vendela had helped groom her husband.

Before she had time to start writing, the outside door suddenly flew open and the young photographer dashed into the hallway. He seemed excited and went over to his camera bag in the kitchen, with only a passing glance at Vendela.

‘Need my wide-angle lens.’

‘What for?’

‘Max has killed a snake!’

She watched him disappear from the kitchen and remained sitting in her armchair for a few seconds before she got up. Behind her Aloysius sat up in his basket and whined at her, but she didn’t have time to attend to him now.

She went outside into the cold.

The sun was shining over the flattened-down earth in the garden. Max was standing by the old stone wall with a spade in his hand, studying something that was lying on it.

Vendela moved slowly towards him. It was a snake with black diamond-shaped markings – an adder. She couldn’t see the head, because the slender body had twisted itself into a large, shapeless knot, and seemed to be trying to tie itself even tighter.

‘It was lying here in the sun when I came over to stand by the wall with the spade,’ said Max as she reached him. ‘It tried to crawl under a stone when it saw me, but I got it.’

‘Max,’ said Vendela quietly, ‘you do know that adders are protected?’

‘Are they?’ He smiled at her. ‘No, I didn’t know that. Neither did the snake, eh?’

Vendela just shook her head. ‘It’s still alive,’ she said. ‘It’s moving.’

‘Muscle memory,’ said Max. ‘I smashed its head with the spade. It’s just that the body hasn’t caught on yet.’

She didn’t answer, but she was thinking about her father, who had warned her about killing adders when she was little. They weren’t protected in those days, but they were magical creatures.

Particularly the black ones – killing a black adder meant a violent death for the person who committed the deed.

At least the one Max had killed was grey.

‘We must bury it,’ she said.

‘No chance,’ said Max. ‘I’ll chuck it away, and the gulls can take care of the body.’

He went towards the quarry with the spade held out in front of him.

‘Just one picture!’

The photographer had his camera at the ready now. He started clicking away with Max posing happily, smiling broadly as he displayed his prize on the spade.

‘Fantastic!’ shouted the photographer.

Max went round to the front of the house with the adder. When he reached the edge of the quarry he gave the spade a flick, and the snake’s body flew through the air like the punctured inner tube of a bicycle tyre.

‘There!’

The snake had landed at the bottom of the quarry, but Vendela could see that it was still struggling and writhing in the limestone dust. It made her think of her father, who had always come home from the quarry with white dust all over his clothes and his cap.

The photographer walked to the edge of the quarry and took a few final pictures of the snake’s body.

Vendela looked at him. ‘Are those going in the cookery book?’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘if they turn out well.’

‘I don’t think so. Snakes aren’t food.’

Vendela decided never to go down into the quarry. Never, right through the spring. The alvar was her world.

Gerlof received two visits every day. They were both from the home-care service, and although a temporary helper sometimes turned up, it was usually Agnes who brought him a meal at half past eleven, and her colleague Madeleine who came at around eight in the evening to assess his chances of surviving the night. At least, that’s what Gerlof assumed she was there for.

He quite enjoyed their visits, even though both women were stressed and sometimes called him by the wrong name. But it must be difficult for them to remember all the old men they called on out in the villages during the course of a day. The visits were usually short. Now and again they had time to stay and chat for a while, but on other occasions they were so rushed they hardly had time to say hello. They just put the food down in the kitchen and disappeared.

A third visitor who came less regularly was Dr Carina Wahlberg. She swept into the garden with her long black coat over her white doctor’s coat. If Gerlof was indoors, her knock was firm and demanding.

Sometimes she came on Thursdays, sometimes on Tuesdays, sometimes even on Sundays. Gerlof never got to grips with Dr Wahlberg’s schedule, but he was always pleased to see her. She checked that he had enough medication, took his blood pressure, and from time to time she did a urine test.

‘So what’s it like being over eighty, Gerlof?’

‘What’s it like? It doesn’t involve a lot of movement, I just sit here. I should have gone to church today … but I couldn’t get there.’

‘But how does it feel, in purely physical terms?’

‘You can try it for yourself.’ Gerlof raised a hand to his head. ‘Stick some cotton wool in your ears, pull on a pair of badly soled shoes and a pair of thick rubber gloves … and smear your glasses with Vaseline. That’s what it’s like to be eighty-three.’

‘Well, now I know,’ said the doctor. ‘By the way, do you remember Wilhelm Pettersson? When I said I was coming to see you today, he sent his best wishes.’

‘The fisherman?’ Gerlof nodded, he remembered Wille from the village of Tallerum. ‘Wilhelm got blown up by a mine during the war. He was standing in the stern of a fishing boat when the prow hit the mine, and the boat flew thirty metres in the air. Wille was the only one who survived … How is he these days?’

‘Fine, but he’s getting a bit deaf.’

‘I expect that’s because of his unexpected flight through the air.’

Gerlof didn’t want to think about all the minefields that had lain off Öland during the war, but they were on his mind anyway. They had sunk many ships. He had worked as a pilot guiding cargo ships past the mines during the war years, and he still had nightmares about running into one of them. Some were still down there in the depths of the sea, rusty and covered with algae …

The doctor had asked him a question.

‘Sorry?’ said Gerlof.

‘I said, How’s your hearing these days?’

‘Not bad at all,’ said Gerlof quickly. ‘I can hear most things. Sometimes I get a rushing noise in my ears, but that’s probably the wind.’