Saga Land by Richard Fidler

Author:Richard Fidler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2017-09-26T04:00:00+00:00

Olanda collecting berries

Then, a couple of nights after we arrived, we joined just about everyone else in Ísafjördur as they milled around the town square waiting for the festival to begin. Guðbjartur and his family were there; they smiled and said hello, but he seemed shy outside work. We exchanged a few remarks about how it was a nice, bright evening, then stood almost beside each other, but not quite. The man who’d sold us our television and fridge took up the space between us and Guðbjartur, and asked if our appliances were all working okay.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I said. ‘I think it’s a good fridge.’

I looked around, and noticed that the reserved feeling between us and Guðbjartur was present elsewhere too, as though we were all on our best behaviour that night. Ólína, the school principal, was MC. Her voice seemed to drift high up from the stage, over the harbour, and then back towards us, somehow travelling out to sea first. There was music as well – performances by local choirs and ensembles. But throughout the festivities the evening remained quiet, even solemn. I wondered whether ‘festival’ was really the right word for what was happening, or whether I’d become too Australian to see it. I’d expected people to be having fun.

At the end, the President of Iceland, Ólafur Ragnar Grímsson, stepped up onto the stage and delivered a speech about the political contributions of the Westfjords, and the great figures who’d come from the area. I’d heard that he, too, had been born in Ísafjördur, and mentioned this to the electrical salesman.

He smiled. ‘He’s the barber’s son.’

THE HEAD OF LANGUAGES at the school was Ingibjörg, an attractive woman in her forties with a busy, distracted manner, but also gregarious and warm. She liked to walk through the school corridors singing Beatles songs, drawing attention to herself and lifting the atmosphere.

The following Monday, the first day of term, she drew me aside and handed me my class lists.

‘And reading materials . . . what do you use?’ I asked. I still didn’t really know what I’d be teaching.

‘Well, there are texts set down from last year, but it’s up to you.’

I looked at last year’s English syllabus. The Great Gatsby was there, Gulliver’s Travels. And Hamlet.

‘How do they manage reading Shakespeare?’ I asked. ‘Even English-speakers find that hard.’

‘I think they’ll love it,’ answered Ingibjörg. ‘You’ll do fine.’

I wasn’t as confident. My first class was a group in their final year, aged nineteen. They were friendly but quiet; a little shocked, I think, to be taught by an Australian-Icelander who knew much less about their school system than they did. But one student, Amy, was the daughter of an Australian woman who taught at the primary school in town, and straight away I recognised a different kind of openness in her.

We worked around the class introducing ourselves. I asked Amy what she was planning to do when she finished school.

‘I’m going to Australia,’ she said.

‘And you?’ I said, looking at her friend at the same table.

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