The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) Read Free Page B

that came and went. It was unpredictable; in the summer his legs usually felt better with the warmth, but sometimes he needed a wheelchair to get around.
    ‘There’s money in this,’ John said.
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Oh, yes. The Öland Wooden Boat Association usually supports projects like this.’
    They heard a whining noise from the coast road behind them, and both men turned their heads. They saw a shiny black Volvo, an SUV, but it had foreign number plates and tinted side windows.
    It was a Monday, the week before Midsummer’s Eve. And Stenvik, the fishing village that had turned into a holiday resort, had come back to life.
    Nature had come to life in May, of course, turning the meadows and the alvar purple, yellow and white. Butterflies had emerged, the grass was green once more, the scent of herbs and flowers filled the air. But in spite of the early sunshine and the heat, the summer visitors had decided that the season didn’t really begin until now. They arrived in force at midsummer to unlock their chalets, dig out the hammocks and live the rural life, close to nature. Until the beginning of August, when they all set off back to the city.
    The Volvo whizzed past, heading north. Gerlof caught a glimpse of several people in the car, but didn’t recognize them.
    ‘Was that the Norwegian family from Tönsberg?’ he said. ‘The ones who bought the Brown House a couple of years ago?’
    ‘The Brown House?’
    ‘Yes – well, it’s painted red now, but it was brown when the Skogmans owned it.’
    ‘The Skogmans?’
    ‘You remember – they were from Ystad.’
    John nodded as he watched the Volvo.
    ‘No, it’s not turning in at the Skogmans’ place … I thought somebody from Holland bought their place?’
    ‘When?’ Gerlof asked.
    ‘Two years ago, I think … spring ’97. But they’ve hardly spent any time here.’
    Gerlof shook his head once more.
    ‘I don’t remember. There are too many people around these days.’
    In the winter, Stenvik was virtually empty, but at this time of year it was impossible to keep up with all the old and new faces. Gerlof had seen generations of summer visitors pass through the village, and these days he found it difficult to distinguish between fathers and sons, mothers and daughters.
    No doubt the visitors didn’t know who Gerlof was either. He had lived in the residential home for senior citizens up in Marnäs for several years, and it was only recently that he had started coming down to his childhood home in the spring and summer, steadfastly battling the pain in his joints.
    It seemed as if his legs were pretty tired of supporting him, and he was tired of it, too. Lately, he had tried turmeric and horseradish for the pain; it had helped to a certain extent, but he could still walk only short distances.
    Take me back, he thought, to a period in my life when there was still time.
    Several expensive cars were speeding along the coast road, but Gerlof turned his back on them and looked at the gig again.
    ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’ll fix her up then, with your son’s help.’
    ‘Good,’ John said. ‘She’s a fine boat. Perfect for fishing.’
    ‘Indeed she is,’ Gerlof agreed, although he hadn’t been fishing for many years. ‘But can you fit it in?’
    ‘Definitely. The campsite more or less runs itself.’
    John had leased the campsite in Stenvik every summer since he had come ashore at the beginning of the sixties. When his son, Anders, was old enough they had started to share the work between them, but John was still the one who went around the tents and caravans each morning and evening, collecting fees and emptying the bins. He hadn’t had a single free summer in thirty-five years, but he seemed to enjoy it.
    ‘That’s agreed, then,’ Gerlof said. ‘Perhaps in August we’ll be eating plaice that we’ve caught ourselves.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ John said. ‘But she can stay here for a while.’
    A while.
When it came to John, that could mean anything