The Journey Home: A Novel

The Journey Home: A Novel by Olaf Olafsson Page A

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Authors: Olaf Olafsson
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Historical
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town. Yesterday we bought coats with
black sealskin collars. They cost nearly 100 kronur. The sealskin was the
cheapest (17.00 kronur a coat) and also the prettiest. Mrs. Olsen and I cooked
trout yesterday, fried whole, and lit candles on the table. Everyone praised the
trout; I could tell by their expressions how much they liked it.
    Mother has asked me twice now how I like the boys in my class. I suspect
she’s getting worried that I never go out. You can tell her that I find them a bit
silly. Though Jorunn probably wouldn’t agree.
    I bumped into Vilhjalmur Borg in the street the day before yesterday. He
was with a young woman I didn’t recognize. He seemed rather drunk.
    Do you think he might have a drink problem, Father? I don’t think he
noticed me, thank goodness.

6
    I’m going to spend the night at Windermere where little Marilyn—or rather, Mrs. Marilyn Thomson as she should be called now—runs the Holbeck Ghyll country hotel with her husband. I wrote to her early in March, once it was obvious that I’d be making this trip, asking how things were going with her and hinting that I thought it was time we met up and renewed our friendship. It’s now many years since our relationship cooled but I have tried to forgive her, though perhaps she didn’t deserve it. She answered me by return of post, inviting me by all means to stay with her on my way to Leith. Although her letter was cautiously worded, I could detect the warmth behind it.
    The shadows are lengthening and lie like fallen trees across the narrow road leading to Holbeck Ghyll. I won’t mention a word about our quarrel when we meet, at least not unless she brings up the subject herself.
    I’ve always called her “little Marilyn” because she was barely twenty when she first came to work for us, a slim, small-boned creature, less developed than girls of her age are usually. Her surname was Stevens, if I remember right. For the first month she worked as a chambermaid, helping out with the washing and gardening. These are back-breaking jobs and the other girls spent their time off amusing themselves, usually by shopping or going into town to have some fun, playing bingo or cards, or attending dances. But Marilyn showed little interest in joining them, becoming instead a frequent visitor to my kitchen whenever she was free from her chores. At first she was unobtrusive but kept a close eye on whatever was happening at the stove. Soon this extended to lending me a hand with this and that. Her help was appreciated, as she was good-natured and genuinely interested.
    It is harder to find kitchen helpers than girls to do the cleaning (though I don’t want to detract from the importance of their job) and after a few months little Marilyn was employed full time in my realm. I think it only right that those who cook should be well acquainted with other kitchen tasks, so she spent the first few weeks washing up and tidying. In the following weeks she graduated to helping me prepare the food, washing and chopping vegetables, cleaning the meat, ensuring that the jars were kept stocked with spices and things like that. Each chore, however unexciting it might have seemed to others, was performed by her with meticulous care.
    She never complained about the work. I mention this particularly because there have been quite a number of girls who have given up after only a few weeks in my kitchen. Yet, I’m no tyrant, let me tell you. I have sometimes suggested they read
Down and Out in Paris and London
by George Orwell when their self-pity has started to get the better of them. I myself got used to the pressure early on. My patrons, Sivertsen and Boulestin, spared no one, but I never complained. No, I have never been one for that.
    For six years little Marilyn was my right hand. I put myself out to teach her and couldn’t have asked for a better pupil. Before I knew it I no longer needed to instruct her. She anticipated my thoughts, reached for a pot before I could

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