Read Online 66° North by Michael Ridpath - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Ridpath
Ads: Link
of white. Horses and dogs were fanning out around the giant flock of sheep, channelling them towards the communal pens. He saw his youngest niece, ten-year-old Frída, jumping up and down in anticipation of seeing her own pet lamb again.
It was nice to see the little girl so happy. She had had a tough year.
Sindri sighed. Frída might not be reunited with her pet lamb for very long.
It turned out that the financial difficulties that his younger brother was suffering over Christmas were not the result of a banker-induced squeeze on agricultural incomes as Sindri hadsupposed. It was worse than that, although it was still the fault of the bankers. Matti had taken over the family farm when their father had died. For three years, he had been investing in the stock market. With astonishing success, at least initially. He had trebled his money. It was easy.
He had borrowed from the bank against the farm and invested more. And doubled his money. He had bought a new Land Cruiser and taken the whole family on safari to Africa. And invested more. With his new-found expertise, Matti had identified Ódinsbanki as the most promising of the banks. He had first invested two years before. As prices had dipped Matti had recognized a buying opportunity, and ploughed all his profits into the bank stock.
Then of course, it all went horribly wrong.
Matti had never told his wife, Freyja. Oh, she knew that he had invested some of their savings in the stock market, and she knew he was worried about how tight money was, but she had no idea how dire the situation had really become, until one morning in March she had woken up early to find the other side of her bed empty. She was unable to get to sleep herself, and had gone looking for her husband. She had found the back door open and footprints in the snow.
She pulled on boots and a coat and followed the footprints out into the darkness, until she found her husband at his favourite spot at the bottom of the slope down from the home meadow where the brook tumbled over the rocks into a pool.
She hadn’t heard the shot. Or maybe she had. Maybe that was what had woken her up.
She was devastated. But she was a strong woman, a farmer’s daughter from a neighbouring dale, and determined not to let Matti down, despite what he had done to her. Blow after blow fell on the family. The bank threatened foreclosure unless its loans were repaid. The kids were a mess. And there was still a farm to run.
Sindri had felt terrible. He liked Freyja, a blonde woman now in her forties with a strong jaw and a bright eye. He had been fondof his little brother Matti, who had done his duty and taken over the farm from their parents. Matti was the strong, hard-working, slightly unimaginative farmer that over the years Sindri had begun to idolize as the real hero of Iceland.
But perhaps it was Freyja who was the real hero.
As he watched the sheep squeeze into the network of communal pens on the valley floor, Sindri thought again of Bjartur. The man was never far from his thoughts. He had always admired Bjartur, but over the last twelve months the tough crofter had become an obsession.
Bjartur wasn’t real: he was a fictional character, the hero of Nobel Prize winning writer Halldór Laxness’s book
Independent People
written in 1935. But he
was
real to Sindri, what he stood for was real, what he represented. Bjartur was a farm labourer who had saved enough to buy his own property, a croft called Summerhouses. He was strong, resilient, proud and above all independent. Through the years in which the book unfolded, he put up with appalling hardship, the death of his wives and children, the ruining of the harvest and consequent shortage of hay for his sheep, the patronizing of his more prosperous neighbours, the curses of the local ghosts.
But Bjartur of Summerhouses never gave up. The First World War came, the ‘Blessed War’ that brought high prices and prosperity to Iceland’s sheep farmers. Improvements were
It was nice to see the little girl so happy. She had had a tough year.
Sindri sighed. Frída might not be reunited with her pet lamb for very long.
It turned out that the financial difficulties that his younger brother was suffering over Christmas were not the result of a banker-induced squeeze on agricultural incomes as Sindri hadsupposed. It was worse than that, although it was still the fault of the bankers. Matti had taken over the family farm when their father had died. For three years, he had been investing in the stock market. With astonishing success, at least initially. He had trebled his money. It was easy.
He had borrowed from the bank against the farm and invested more. And doubled his money. He had bought a new Land Cruiser and taken the whole family on safari to Africa. And invested more. With his new-found expertise, Matti had identified Ódinsbanki as the most promising of the banks. He had first invested two years before. As prices had dipped Matti had recognized a buying opportunity, and ploughed all his profits into the bank stock.
Then of course, it all went horribly wrong.
Matti had never told his wife, Freyja. Oh, she knew that he had invested some of their savings in the stock market, and she knew he was worried about how tight money was, but she had no idea how dire the situation had really become, until one morning in March she had woken up early to find the other side of her bed empty. She was unable to get to sleep herself, and had gone looking for her husband. She had found the back door open and footprints in the snow.
She pulled on boots and a coat and followed the footprints out into the darkness, until she found her husband at his favourite spot at the bottom of the slope down from the home meadow where the brook tumbled over the rocks into a pool.
She hadn’t heard the shot. Or maybe she had. Maybe that was what had woken her up.
She was devastated. But she was a strong woman, a farmer’s daughter from a neighbouring dale, and determined not to let Matti down, despite what he had done to her. Blow after blow fell on the family. The bank threatened foreclosure unless its loans were repaid. The kids were a mess. And there was still a farm to run.
Sindri had felt terrible. He liked Freyja, a blonde woman now in her forties with a strong jaw and a bright eye. He had been fondof his little brother Matti, who had done his duty and taken over the farm from their parents. Matti was the strong, hard-working, slightly unimaginative farmer that over the years Sindri had begun to idolize as the real hero of Iceland.
But perhaps it was Freyja who was the real hero.
As he watched the sheep squeeze into the network of communal pens on the valley floor, Sindri thought again of Bjartur. The man was never far from his thoughts. He had always admired Bjartur, but over the last twelve months the tough crofter had become an obsession.
Bjartur wasn’t real: he was a fictional character, the hero of Nobel Prize winning writer Halldór Laxness’s book
Independent People
written in 1935. But he
was
real to Sindri, what he stood for was real, what he represented. Bjartur was a farm labourer who had saved enough to buy his own property, a croft called Summerhouses. He was strong, resilient, proud and above all independent. Through the years in which the book unfolded, he put up with appalling hardship, the death of his wives and children, the ruining of the harvest and consequent shortage of hay for his sheep, the patronizing of his more prosperous neighbours, the curses of the local ghosts.
But Bjartur of Summerhouses never gave up. The First World War came, the ‘Blessed War’ that brought high prices and prosperity to Iceland’s sheep farmers. Improvements were
Similar Books
