The Darkness(37)

‘I believe you,’ said Pétur. As ever, he answered without hesitation and said exactly the right thing.

‘I do have one genuine memory from early childhood,’ Hulda continued. ‘There were plans to have me fostered – this was after my mother had taken me back and we were living with my grandparents. A couple were interested in adopting me. Again, I heard this from Granddad, not from my mother, though I have no reason to doubt what he said, and this time I actually remember something about it. I remember the flight – it must have been to the east. That would fit in with the location because the couple lived between the glacial sands in the Skaftafell district and it used to be quite a palaver to get there in those days. I’ve never forgotten that journey, though I was only a toddler at the time. We never used to leave Reykjavík, so I suppose I’ve retained memories from the trip because it was so unusual.’

‘Tell me …’ Pétur hesitated, as if unsure whether to continue. ‘Perhaps it’s an inappropriate question …’

‘Fire away,’ said Hulda, and immediately regretted it.

‘Well … If you could choose now, in retrospect, would you have wanted to grow up with your mother?’

The question threw Hulda, perhaps precisely because she had often, almost unconsciously, wondered the same thing, without coming to any definite conclusion. Had her childhood been happy? Not really; perhaps not at all. But there was no way of knowing if the grass would have been greener if she had been brought up by strangers. Did money matter? Had the poverty of her upbringing, the endless striving to make ends meet, had a lasting effect on her?

She cast her mind back to her early years, trying to recall some happy memories. There was the one where she was sitting in her bedroom listening to a story; she couldn’t remember what the story was about, but the memory was vivid and warm. The person sitting next to her then had been her granddad, not her mother. She also recalled a trip, when she was maybe eight or nine, to the corner shop, which had been closed for many years now. She had gone there to spend her own money, a small fortune which she had saved up by working for her granddad in the summer, helping him with bits of DIY around the small flat. Everything was linked to her granddad, not her mother, and yet her mother had always been so kind to her.

She took her time answering. ‘I have to admit, between you and me, and I’m holding the wine to blame if I regret this conversation later, that I could have had a happier childhood, though whether being fostered would have solved the problem is impossible to say. What I do believe, what I’m sure of, is that my life would have been better if I’d been allowed to stay with my mother from the beginning. I know children aren’t supposed to remember anything about their first few years, but remembering is one thing, sensing is another. I believe I picked up on the insecurity and that it’s affected me all my life. I also believe that my poor mother felt guilty from the moment she handed me over to her dying day. And guilt can be a heavy burden.’

‘I’m sorry, Hulda, I didn’t mean to be … intrusive.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m through being over-sensitive about the past. What’s done is done. No point crying over spilt milk, and all that. Though, inevitably, you do regret some things: they’re always lying in wait to ambush you in your dreams.’ Hulda allowed a silence to fall, her gaze wandering around the handsome living room, reflecting not for the first time that Pétur had never known what it was like to go without.

He opened his mouth to speak but she got in first: ‘You’re always asking about me.’ She smiled to show that this wasn’t intended as a criticism. ‘Let’s talk about you now. Did you and your wife build this house?’

‘Yes, we did, as a matter of fact. It’s been a wonderful place to live. A good location, of course, a nice area. We came very close to selling it at one time, but I’m extremely glad we didn’t. I’m very attached to it. It holds so many memories – both good and bad, of course – and I have every intention of staying put, although it’s far too big.’ After a beat, he added: ‘Too big for one person, that is.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why did you come close to selling it?’ Her detective instincts alerted, she had pounced unerringly on that hint of evasiveness.

Pétur didn’t answer straight away. He got up and fetched another bottle, then settled on the sofa again, still at a polite distance.

‘It looked as if we were heading for a divorce at one point, about fifteen years ago.’ Hulda could tell that it was an effort for him to talk about this.

She waited without speaking.

After a lengthy pause and another sip of wine, Pétur elaborated: ‘She had an affair. It had been going on for several years without my having a clue. When I discovered by accident, she moved out. I sued for divorce, and it had almost gone through when she came round to see me and begged for a second chance.’

‘Did you find it easy to forgive her?’

‘Yes, I did, actually. Perhaps because it was her and I’d been in love with her all those years. That never changed. But I think it’s just my nature. I’ve always been quick to forgive. Don’t know why.’

On hearing this, Hulda reflected that maybe they weren’t as well suited as she’d thought. Because she was certainly not quick to forgive.