The Mist

and could afford to treat themselves to the odd luxury as well, like taking Dimma out to dinner once or twice a month, usually at their favourite hamburger joint. Reykjavík, only ten minutes away by car, had so few restaurants that even going to a fast-food place counted as a special occasion. Come to think of it, it was quite a while since they’d last been for a meal as a family. Dimma seemed to have grown out of wanting to spend time with her parents and had refused several invitations to come out with them in the last few weeks and months.
‘Jón, why don’t we go out for a meal tomorrow?’
‘On Thorlákur’s Mass? Everywhere’s bound to be heaving.’
‘I was just thinking about our usual place, about going for a burger and chips.’
‘Hm…’ After a brief pause, he said: ‘Let’s wait and see. It’s bound to be packed and the rush-hour traffic’s always so bad this close to Christmas. Don’t forget we still need to decorate the tree too.’
‘Oh, damn,’ she said. ‘I forgot to pick one up today.’
‘Hulda, you promised to take care of that. Isn’t there a place selling trees right by your office?’
‘Yes, there is, I drive past it every day.’
‘Then can’t you go and buy one first thing tomorrow morning? I suppose we’ll be stuck with some spindly little reject now.’
After a moment’s silence, Hulda changed the subject. ‘Have you got anything else for Dimma? We talked about getting her some jewellery, didn’t we? I bought that book I think she wants – she always used to like reading at Christmas, anyway. And I happen to know that my mother has knitted her a jumper, so at least she’ll be safe from the Christmas Cat.’ Hulda grinned at her own joke, a reference to the evil cat that, according to folklore, ate Icelandic children who didn’t receive any new clothes at Christmas.
‘I don’t know what she wants,’ Jón said. ‘She hasn’t dropped any hints, but I’ll sort it out tomorrow.’ Then he added with a chuckle: ‘Do you really think she’ll wear a jumper knitted by your mum?’ Before Hulda could react, he went on: ‘This is bloody good wine, isn’t it? It certainly cost enough.’
‘Yes, it’s not bad,’ she said, though she wasn’t sufficiently used to red wine to be able to taste the difference between plonk and the good stuff. ‘Don’t make fun of Mum; she’s doing her best.’ Although she wasn’t as close to her mother as she could have wished, Hulda was sometimes hurt by the way Jón talked about her. For her part, Hulda had always been keen for Dimma to get to know her grandmother properly, and that at least had worked out well.
‘Your mum hasn’t shown her face round here for ages, has she?’ Jón remarked, and Hulda knew that the light, teasing note in his voice hid an underlying criticism, though whether of Hulda or her mother, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps both of them.
‘No, that’s my fault. I’ve just been so busy that I haven’t had time to invite her round, to be honest.’ It was half true. The fact was, she didn’t particularly enjoy her mother’s company. Their relationship had always been rather constrained, and her mother could be so suffocatingly intense, always on her back. It’s not as if they ever talked about anything that mattered either.
Hulda had spent almost the first two years of her life at a home for infants, and she longed to ask her mother about the past, about why she had been put there. She suspected her grandparents had been mostly to blame, and yet somehow she had found it easier to forgive them than her mother. Naturally, she had been too young to have any memory of her time in the home, but ever since she had learned about it later from her grandfather the knowledge had haunted her. Perhaps that explained her inability to bond with her mother: the feeling that she had been abandoned, that she hadn’t been loved, was hard to bear.
She took another sip of Jón’s expensive wine. At least she was loved now. Happily married to Jón, mother of a darling daughter. She hoped to goodness Dimma would shake off her sullen mood over Christmas.
Just then she heard a sound from the hall.
‘Is she awake?’ Hulda asked, starting to get up.
‘Sit down, love,’ Jón said, placing a hand on her thigh. He was gripping it unnecessarily tightly, she thought, but she didn’t protest.
Then she heard a door closing and the click of a lock.
‘She’s only gone to the bathroom. Calm down, love. We need to give her some space. She’s growing up so fast.’
Of course, he was right. Adolescence brought big changes and no doubt children coped with them in different ways. The phase would pass and maybe Hulda simply needed to back off a bit. As a mother, she was tugged by such powerful emotions, but sometimes she knew it would be better if she just relaxed.
They sat in companionable silence for a while, something they’d always been good at. Jón topped up Hulda’s glass, though she hadn’t emptied it yet, and she thanked him.
‘Shouldn’t we get a gammon joint to have on the twenty-fourth, as usual?’ Jón asked. He obviously hadn’t noticed the joint which was already safely stowed in the bottom of the fridge.
‘Didn’t you two have any supper?’ Hulda asked in return. ‘And, yes, I’ve already got the gammon.’
‘There was no time. I grabbed a sandwich on my way home and Dimma’s used to fending for herself. There’s always skyr or something in the fridge, isn’t there?’
Hulda nodded.
‘Busy at work?’ he asked amiably, changing the subject.
‘Yes, actually. We’re always trying to juggle too many cases. There just aren’t enough of us.’
‘Oh, come on, we live in the most peaceful country in the world.’
She merely smiled, in an attempt to close the subject. Some of the cases she dealt with were deeply distressing and she had no wish to discuss them with