She closed her eyes, but continued to see pictures inside her head. She could see all the way across the alvar to the water, and she thought she could even see the quarry and her own house beside it. Max was sitting there at one of his desks working on the penultimate chapter of Good Food to the Max. He was describing his day-to-day life, in which he was responsible for most of the cooking in the home, simply because ‘the greatest joy in life lies in sharing your own happiness with another person’. So in order to see a happy face in the morning, Max would wake his wife — ‘my beloved V’ as he referred to her in the book — ‘with a groaning breakfast tray laden with freshly baked bread, fruit and freshly pressed juices’.
Vendela knew that at that moment Max was utterly convinced that this was the case, despite the fact that she was almost always the one who made their breakfast. He had treated her to breakfast in bed or had made dinner on the odd special occasion, and she had hoped that if she praised him enough he might help her in the kitchen more often. But cooking had never become part of Max’s everyday life.
That didn’t matter now, out here on the alvar.
She could see their neighbours’ house to the north, the old house built by one of Henry’s workmates, and the family who were living there now. Per Mörner was sitting on the patio with his elderly father. His children were there too. Everything looked very peaceful and festive, but Vendela knew that appearances could be deceptive.
Per was a stressed and tortured soul. It would do him good to get out here on the alvar for a run.
Then she stopped gazing into the distance and her thoughts returned to the place where she was sitting now, to the stone and the little glade among the juniper bushes. For a brief moment everything was bright and shiny, but suddenly she saw the image of a tall man in her mind, dressed in a white robe. He was standing completely still, unaffected by her gaze. He was smiling at her.
The king of the elves? No, Vendela sensed that this was their messenger, a servant indicating that they were aware of her presence. This man was of a lower rank — he actually reminded her of Max to a certain extent.
He remained there inside her head, still smiling, as if he were trying to say: It is you who must take the first step, not me.
But Vendela was not ready to take that step, not yet.
She opened her eyes and looked around. The glade was empty, but she could hear the sound of rustling over in the bushes.
She shivered, just as she always did when she dragged herself back from the world of the elves. She got up and took three coins out of her pocket. She placed them in a row on top of the stone, each in its own hollow.
One coin for Max and herself, one for Aloysius’s health, and one for the neighbours by the quarry. Per Mörner and the others.
Then she turned and set off across the alvar again, loping between the gleaming pools of water. The evening sun was shining in the west, a warm lighthouse guiding her down towards the coast.
It was only seven o’clock when she got home. Time had passed slowly, as it always did in the world of the elves.
28
Gerlof was sitting in the garden. It was Good Friday, the day that Jesus had died on the cross. When he was a little boy, Gerlof had been forced to mark the day by doing absolutely nothing. You were not allowed to play, or listen to the radio, or talk loudly, and you were most definitely not allowed to laugh. All you could do, in fact, was sit still on a chair. As an old man he marked the day in more or less the same way, but now it felt pleasantly restful.
He was waiting for his children and grandchildren to arrive from the west coast. There were things he could be doing; he had customers waiting for ships in bottles, and he was paid well for making them. But it was a holiday, after all, and in any case his thoughts kept returning to the pile of Ella’s old diaries.
He should never have started looking at them.
In the end he got up and went to fetch the diary for 1957. He settled down in his chair, opened the diary somewhere around the middle, and began to read Ella’s neat handwriting.
16th June 1957
Last night we had a storm, and the children and I got up to watch the lightning. It struck three times out in the sound — we could hear the water crackling. Gerlof slept through the whole thing, but I suppose he’s used to noise out at sea.
Yesterday he cycled up to Långvik, bought a new fishing net and cycled back to lay it out, then he got up at five this morning to check it — there were twenty-five flounder and six perch. So today we had fish in white sauce — delicious.
This morning Lena and Julia saw a young deer run across the road into the forest.
Today that poor widower Henry Fors who lives to the north of the village sold his last two calves for slaughter, the wagon came from Kalmar to fetch them at two o’clock, so now he just has the three cows that his daughter Vendela helps him with. It’s sad, but I suppose he needs the money.
Ella was right about Vendela Larsson’s father, Gerlof thought; he had never had much money. A few skinny cows grazing on meadows that were anything but lush, and his job in the little village quarry that could no longer compete with the big companies. It wasn’t easy.
He turned to the next page:
27th June 1957
It’s been a while since I wrote; time goes so quickly and I’ve got so much to do that the days just disappear. And I don’t always feel like writing, anyway.
It’s hot and sunny — summer has definitely arrived.
Gerlof has sailed down to Kalmar to measure the ship; he went yesterday and took the girls with him — they’re on holiday from school. I’m perfectly happy up here in the village on my own, though — I mean, there’s the sewing group down in Borgholm, but I don’t really miss it. It’s mostly talk and gossip about whoever hasn’t turned up that evening, so I expect they’ll be busy talking about me right now.
There are cock pheasants all over the place in the evenings; I expect they’re attracted by the hen pheasants down on the farms. The owners of the hens have no intention of letting them get together!
The little changeling from the pasture crept up to the cottage again today, and I gave him some oatcakes and lemonade. He’s full of life, he never stands still, but he doesn’t say much, and he won’t tell me who he is or where he comes from.
He needs a wash. And his hair is really long and matted — I’ve never seen anything like it.
Suddenly Gerlof heard the sound of a car engine, and almost jumped out of his seat. A car was coming along the village road; it slowed down and turned in.
He quickly closed the diary and hid it under the blanket; he was sitting quietly and calmly in his chair when the gate was opened and the Volvo rolled slowly down the path, bringing his two daughters and their families. The car doors were flung open.
‘Hello Granddad! Here we are!’
‘Welcome!’ Gerlof shouted, waving cheerfully. ‘Happy Easter!’
They all climbed out: Lena and her youngest daughter, then Julia and her two youngest stepsons, along with their suitcases and rucksacks.
The family had arrived, and that was the end of his peace and quiet.
The grandchildren gave Gerlof a quick hug, then raced into the cottage and switched on the TV or the radio — whatever it was, the volume was turned up high and loud music came pouring out of the windows.
Gerlof stayed in his chair on the lawn, thinking about what Good Friday had been like when he was a child.
‘How are you, Dad? Is everything nice and quiet here?’