himself together and come up with some suggestions as to what she should do, or look for she could stay for another two days, or three.
Then she looked around the empty garden and decided. No. She would go home to Gothenburg today, but not until later.
On the way back to the boathouse, holding the water container tightly, she stopped to look at the yellow house behind the hawthorn hedge below the cottage. It was surrounded by tall, spreading ash trees and was barely visible behind the hedge, but what could be seen wasn’t attractive. The house wasn’t just empty, it was completely abandoned. Virginia creeper had spread all over the walls and begun to cover the cracked windows.
Julia had a vague memory of an old woman living there, a
woman who never went out or mixed with anyone else in the village.
It
was strange that the house had been left to decay; it was a
fine house beneath all the cracks. Somebody ought to do up the whole place.
Julia hurried back down to the boathouse to make a cup of tea and some breakfast.
Fortyfive minutes later she locked the door of the boathouse, one bag over her shoulder and the other in her hand. Inside, the bed had been made, the electricity switched off, and the blinds pulled down. The boathouse was empty again.
Julia walked across the ridge to the car, looked around without seeing a single person along the coast, and got in. She started the engine and took one last look at the boathouse. She looked at the ridge, the decaying windmill, and all the glittering water below her, and felt the sorrow return.
She quickly turned the car toward the main road.
She drove past the farm that was now a summer cottage, past
the deserted yellow house, and past the gate to Gerlof’s cottage.
Goodbye, goodbye.
Goodbye,Jens.
To the left of the village road was another road leading to
another group of summer cottages, and there was also a rectangular piece of limestone embedded in the ground with the words craft work in stone 1 km painted on it in white. On an iron post above it was a sign showing the symbol indicating that there was no through road.
Julia saw the sign and remembered what she’d been thinking
of doing this morning before she went to say goodbye to Gerlof: stopping off at the old quarry to have a look at Ernst Adolfsson’s sculptures.
She didn’t really have any money to buy that sort of thing, but she thought she would like to see his work. And perhaps she might try and ask some more questions about Jens, if Ernst remembered his disappearance and if he might be willing to tell her where he himself had been that day. It couldn’t do any harm.
She turned off onto the narrow track, and the little Ford immediately began to bounce and list from one side to the other. It was the worst road Julia had driven on so far on Oland, largely because of the cloudburst. The rainwater was still lying in the wheel tracks in long narrow pools; she slowed and crept forward in first gear, but the car still slipped and slid in the muddy hollows.
She left the summer cottages behind and drove along the
edge of the alvar. The track curved slowly off toward the quarry along the coast road, then straightened as it approached Ernst Adolfsson’s low cottage. It stopped in front of the house at a circular turning area, where Ernst’s old white Volvo was still parked.
There was no sign of life, but another flat, polished stone with black lettering had been erected in the middle of the turning area: CRAFT WORK IN STONEWELCOME.
Julia pulled in behind the Volvo and turned off the engine.
She got out of the car and took her thin wallet out of her purse.
The wind was sighing in the long grass, and the landscape was almost completely bare of trees. On one side of the garden was the enormous wound in the hillside that was the quarry, on the other side there was only grass and isolated juniper bushes as far as the eye could see. The alvar.
She turned and looked at the house.
It was closed
Then she looked around the empty garden and decided. No. She would go home to Gothenburg today, but not until later.
On the way back to the boathouse, holding the water container tightly, she stopped to look at the yellow house behind the hawthorn hedge below the cottage. It was surrounded by tall, spreading ash trees and was barely visible behind the hedge, but what could be seen wasn’t attractive. The house wasn’t just empty, it was completely abandoned. Virginia creeper had spread all over the walls and begun to cover the cracked windows.
Julia had a vague memory of an old woman living there, a
woman who never went out or mixed with anyone else in the village.
It
was strange that the house had been left to decay; it was a
fine house beneath all the cracks. Somebody ought to do up the whole place.
Julia hurried back down to the boathouse to make a cup of tea and some breakfast.
Fortyfive minutes later she locked the door of the boathouse, one bag over her shoulder and the other in her hand. Inside, the bed had been made, the electricity switched off, and the blinds pulled down. The boathouse was empty again.
Julia walked across the ridge to the car, looked around without seeing a single person along the coast, and got in. She started the engine and took one last look at the boathouse. She looked at the ridge, the decaying windmill, and all the glittering water below her, and felt the sorrow return.
She quickly turned the car toward the main road.
She drove past the farm that was now a summer cottage, past
the deserted yellow house, and past the gate to Gerlof’s cottage.
Goodbye, goodbye.
Goodbye,Jens.
To the left of the village road was another road leading to
another group of summer cottages, and there was also a rectangular piece of limestone embedded in the ground with the words craft work in stone 1 km painted on it in white. On an iron post above it was a sign showing the symbol indicating that there was no through road.
Julia saw the sign and remembered what she’d been thinking
of doing this morning before she went to say goodbye to Gerlof: stopping off at the old quarry to have a look at Ernst Adolfsson’s sculptures.
She didn’t really have any money to buy that sort of thing, but she thought she would like to see his work. And perhaps she might try and ask some more questions about Jens, if Ernst remembered his disappearance and if he might be willing to tell her where he himself had been that day. It couldn’t do any harm.
She turned off onto the narrow track, and the little Ford immediately began to bounce and list from one side to the other. It was the worst road Julia had driven on so far on Oland, largely because of the cloudburst. The rainwater was still lying in the wheel tracks in long narrow pools; she slowed and crept forward in first gear, but the car still slipped and slid in the muddy hollows.
She left the summer cottages behind and drove along the
edge of the alvar. The track curved slowly off toward the quarry along the coast road, then straightened as it approached Ernst Adolfsson’s low cottage. It stopped in front of the house at a circular turning area, where Ernst’s old white Volvo was still parked.
There was no sign of life, but another flat, polished stone with black lettering had been erected in the middle of the turning area: CRAFT WORK IN STONEWELCOME.
Julia pulled in behind the Volvo and turned off the engine.
She got out of the car and took her thin wallet out of her purse.
The wind was sighing in the long grass, and the landscape was almost completely bare of trees. On one side of the garden was the enormous wound in the hillside that was the quarry, on the other side there was only grass and isolated juniper bushes as far as the eye could see. The alvar.
She turned and looked at the house.
It was closed
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