Free The Journey Home: A Novel by Olaf Olafsson Page A

enough sleep, I have difficulty catching sight of him in my memory.
    Little Marilyn and I sat up late and I must say, before going any further, that she hasn’t lost any of her talent for cooking. The moment I took the first mouthful of lobster I knew I was in the presence of a soulmate.
    “Nonsense,” she said in embarrassment. “You taught me everything I know.”
    After the meal we stayed out on the veranda listening to the familiar evening sounds and treating ourselves to cheese and fruit—peaches, strawberries, apples and cherries—as companionably as if nothing had changed since we used to sit outside the conservatory at home at the end of a long day’s work, talking about everything and nothing, or just enjoying the silence with no need for words.
    The hotel is beautifully situated beside Lake Windermere, and although it is not built on high ground, there is nothing to disrupt the view to the south over the water and the Langdale Fells. As we approached earlier today, I noticed an oystercatcher on the shore and a tern diving for minnows. The house is neat and attractive, though not large, a former rectory, as I had guessed from the photographs. The annex where my driver is staying does nothing to detract from the view, as it has been freshly painted. It’s a good thing he didn’t have to pay for lodging at some bed-and-breakfast. Marilyn and her husband run the hotel and own it in partnership, from what I can gather, though naturally it wouldn’t occur to me to inquire into their finances. The rooms are also cozy, proving that little Marilyn has a good memory.
    In other words, I would recommend Holbeck Ghyll without hesitation to anyone who is visiting the Lake District in Cumbria.
    During the last stages of the journey I had been slightly anxious about what I should say to her when I arrived, but these worries turned out to be unnecessary. They were both there to greet me as we came up the drive, and had clearly been waiting for me. Marilyn opened my door before the driver could get there, while her husband stood back. She had matured attractively, putting on a few pounds where they wouldn’t go amiss and her smile and eyes contained the same sincerity, though they had gained assurance over the years. She hugged me and it was as if we had never quarreled. The porter took my bags and carried them inside, and once we had released each other her husband greeted me warmly and asked the driver to park the car behind the house and take some refreshment in the kitchen.
    My room faced south. I ran a bath and lay in the tub looking out over the lake through the open window. A butterfly flew in and fluttered around me and I watched with pleasure as the sun shone on its paper-thin wings, turning them into a flickering spark of light. The sight filled me with a sense of well-being and I felt sure the evening would be delightful.
    I had noticed how well husband and wife seemed to get on together, in a nice way, without artifice. My thoughts turned to them as I lay in the bath looking out at the lake and it occurred to me, as so often before, that my attitude to their marriage had been wrong. I pondered this for a while and was on the verge of feeling guilty once again, but told myself after further consideration that there was no point in brooding over something which was long since buried and forgotten. The main thing was that their marriage appeared happy. Satisfied that this conclusion was right, I dried myself in the breeze from the window.
    After getting dressed, I took a better look around the room. It was spacious with pretty yellow wallpaper which seemed even more cheerful in the light of the afternoon sun. On the bedside table was a small lamp, a vase containing a reddish yellow rose, and a gardening book. On the coffee table lay brochures about the hotel and information about the neighboring district, as well as a silver cigar box, dried grasses and a cookery book which I had been persuaded to take part in