morning her nose and eyes felt quite good. Then she put away the box of tranquillizers, plus the small packs of Vistaril, which she had started to take at night a few years ago; sometimes she took them first thing in the morning as well.
But that was in Stockholm. Here on the island she would be more careful, and today she was going to take only two tablets. Something new. It was called Folangir, and had arrived by post from Denmark last week. It was a kind of diet pill that was supposed to suppress hunger and anxiety – but it also contained nutrients. Extract of calendula and several important vitamins, according to the label.
She washed them down with a glass of water.
There. Time for that walk.
The new tablets were unusually strong, and she felt slightly dizzy as she stepped outside. The sun was shining, and a chilly spring breeze swirled around the house, but neither warmth nor cold affected her now. She had found her balance. Everything was lovely.
The sky was immense here; there wasn’t a single mountain to stop the light flooding the island. That was why the elves were happy here.
The countryside was so silent as Vendela crossed the narrow track. No cars, no voices. Just birdsong all around her, and the tranquil lapping of the waves from the open sound.
On the other side of the gravel track was an even narrower path. Two wheel ruts with a line of grass running up the middle; it could lead anywhere. She set off, jogging along with her eyes closed for a few seconds.
When she looked up, she saw a closed gate in an old stone wall. Behind it was a small garden, with someone sitting on the pale-yellow lawn. A man in a deckchair.
As Vendela crept closer she could see that the man was very old, wrinkled and almost bald, with a fringe of white hair at the back of his head. He had a thick scarf knotted beneath his chin, a blanket over his legs and a slender book on his knee. His eyes were closed, his chin resting on his chest, and he looked completely at ease, like a man who had finished his work here in this life and was satisfied with everything he had achieved.
It could have been her father sitting there – but of course Henry had always been too restless to sit in the garden.
Vendela thought the man was asleep, but as she stopped by the gate he raised his head and looked at her.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ she called out.
‘No more than anybody else,’ replied the man, tucking the book beneath the blanket.
He had a quiet yet powerful voice, the voice of someone who was used to being in charge. A bit like Max.
The tablets made Vendela more courageous than usual; she opened the gate and went in.
‘I’m sitting here looking for butterflies,’ said the man as she walked towards him. ‘And thinking.’
It wasn’t a joke, but Vendela still laughed – and regretted it immediately.
‘I’m Vendela,’ she said quickly. ‘Vendela Larsson.’
‘And my name is Davidsson, Gerlof Davidsson.’
An unusual name. Vendela didn’t think she’d come across it before.
‘Gerlof … is that German?’
‘I think it was Dutch originally. It’s an old family name.’
‘Do you live here all year round, Gerlof?’
‘I do now. I suppose I’ll be here until they carry me out feet first.’
Vendela laughed again. ‘In that case we’ll be neighbours.’ She pointed back the way she’d come, trying to keep her hand steady. ‘We’ve just moved in over by the quarry, my husband Max and I. We’ll be living here.’
‘I see,’ said Gerlof. ‘But only when the weather’s warm. Not all year round.’
It wasn’t a question.
‘No, not all year round … just in spring and summer.’
She was going to add thank God , but stopped herself. It probably wasn’t very polite to mention that it was too cold and desolate to live on the island in the middle of winter. She’d done it when she was little, and that was quite enough.
Neither of them spoke. There were no butterflies to be seen, but the birds were
But that was in Stockholm. Here on the island she would be more careful, and today she was going to take only two tablets. Something new. It was called Folangir, and had arrived by post from Denmark last week. It was a kind of diet pill that was supposed to suppress hunger and anxiety – but it also contained nutrients. Extract of calendula and several important vitamins, according to the label.
She washed them down with a glass of water.
There. Time for that walk.
The new tablets were unusually strong, and she felt slightly dizzy as she stepped outside. The sun was shining, and a chilly spring breeze swirled around the house, but neither warmth nor cold affected her now. She had found her balance. Everything was lovely.
The sky was immense here; there wasn’t a single mountain to stop the light flooding the island. That was why the elves were happy here.
The countryside was so silent as Vendela crossed the narrow track. No cars, no voices. Just birdsong all around her, and the tranquil lapping of the waves from the open sound.
On the other side of the gravel track was an even narrower path. Two wheel ruts with a line of grass running up the middle; it could lead anywhere. She set off, jogging along with her eyes closed for a few seconds.
When she looked up, she saw a closed gate in an old stone wall. Behind it was a small garden, with someone sitting on the pale-yellow lawn. A man in a deckchair.
As Vendela crept closer she could see that the man was very old, wrinkled and almost bald, with a fringe of white hair at the back of his head. He had a thick scarf knotted beneath his chin, a blanket over his legs and a slender book on his knee. His eyes were closed, his chin resting on his chest, and he looked completely at ease, like a man who had finished his work here in this life and was satisfied with everything he had achieved.
It could have been her father sitting there – but of course Henry had always been too restless to sit in the garden.
Vendela thought the man was asleep, but as she stopped by the gate he raised his head and looked at her.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ she called out.
‘No more than anybody else,’ replied the man, tucking the book beneath the blanket.
He had a quiet yet powerful voice, the voice of someone who was used to being in charge. A bit like Max.
The tablets made Vendela more courageous than usual; she opened the gate and went in.
‘I’m sitting here looking for butterflies,’ said the man as she walked towards him. ‘And thinking.’
It wasn’t a joke, but Vendela still laughed – and regretted it immediately.
‘I’m Vendela,’ she said quickly. ‘Vendela Larsson.’
‘And my name is Davidsson, Gerlof Davidsson.’
An unusual name. Vendela didn’t think she’d come across it before.
‘Gerlof … is that German?’
‘I think it was Dutch originally. It’s an old family name.’
‘Do you live here all year round, Gerlof?’
‘I do now. I suppose I’ll be here until they carry me out feet first.’
Vendela laughed again. ‘In that case we’ll be neighbours.’ She pointed back the way she’d come, trying to keep her hand steady. ‘We’ve just moved in over by the quarry, my husband Max and I. We’ll be living here.’
‘I see,’ said Gerlof. ‘But only when the weather’s warm. Not all year round.’
It wasn’t a question.
‘No, not all year round … just in spring and summer.’
She was going to add thank God , but stopped herself. It probably wasn’t very polite to mention that it was too cold and desolate to live on the island in the middle of winter. She’d done it when she was little, and that was quite enough.
Neither of them spoke. There were no butterflies to be seen, but the birds were
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