slow waltz, they danced and whirled, swirling around the glass structure like delicate ballerinas, almost hitting the glass and then at the last second spinning away as if teasing death before they escaped. Entranced Lucy’s looked up through the glass ceiling, the sight almost dizzying, as the concentration of layer up on layer of flakes seemed to be coming down in never-ending torrent strings.
It was like being in an inside out snow globe, she thought, as those less fortunate flakes, doomed to an early eclipse, hit the glass with tiny pfft, pfft sounds, as the ice crystals splatted against the surface.
‘I’ve never seen such huge snowflakes,’ said Lucy in sheer wonderment, as she followed the path of one which she could have sworn was the same size as her hand.
‘Hundslappadrifa,’ beamed Hekla. ‘We have a name for this type of snow. In translation it means dog’s feet snow.’
Lucy clapped her hands in delight. It was the most perfect description. ‘I love that. Although, I guess we won’t be able to go to Hvolsvöllur this morning.’ The snow had settled fast in the last half hour, a good inch already rounding off the edges of the fences and rooflines outside. She’d been looking forward to getting out of the hotel and seeing a bit of Iceland, even if it was only the nearest town twenty minutes away.
‘Of course we will,’ said Hekla. ‘In Iceland, snow doesn’t stop us. Petta reddast.’
‘What does that mean?’
Hekla grinned. ‘I’ll tell you in the jeep on the way.’
Buckled in, cocooned in the warm fug of the car, they drove along the straight road towards the lights of the town glowing in the distance like a beacon.
‘Will we be alright?’ asked Lucy dubiously looking at the thickening layer of snow which was building quickly.
‘Ja,’ said Hekla, with blithe confidence patting the steering wheel. ‘This baby will get us there and back with no problems.’
‘At home, everything would have ground to halt already,’ observed Lucy, thinking of last winter and the mass influx of snow-clad travellers turning up at the hotel in Manchester unable to get home.
‘Ha, this is Iceland. We’re made of strong stuff. Like I said before, petta reddast, it’s a saying we have. Everything will be OK. Living here, we have a belief that we can do things. There is always something to face, the storms, floods, snowfall, ice and volcanoes. It is the land of heat and fire, but we Icelanders, we can do great things. We have self-belief. Remember our football team,’ she turned with a sly smile haunting her mouth. ‘We beat the English, a small team from a country of 340,000 people. Our manger was a part-time dentist.’
‘I remember,’ said Lucy dryly, thinking back to Chris’s cocky pre-match dismissive attitude to the threat of the Icelandic team and his irate howls at the television during the match when Iceland scored two goals to England’s one.
‘It is a positive attitude,’ she cast an arm towards the scene outside. ‘It is hard living here, you have to survive. The Vikings that came here from Europe had to carve out a life. It breeds a toughness but also a team spirit. Together we can make things happen. For example, Elin, believes that she will write and publish her book, Freya will be a great actress one day and Brynja trains for the marathon. All of them believe that they will succeed.’
‘And what about you?’ asked Lucy.
‘One day I will travel. As a child I went to many places with my parents but I want to do what you’ve done, travel to a new country and work in a good hotel.’ Hekla grinned. ‘But I want to make The Northern Lights Lodge, the best hotel before I leave. I’ve lived in many places but this is the place that feels like home. I want people who come here to see how wonderful my country is. I want them to remember their stay here for ever.’
‘You and me both,’ said Lucy. ‘I hope you don’t plan to leave too soon.’
Hekla shrugged. ‘It depends on the new owners.’
‘New owners?’ The words croaked out of Lucy’s throat in sudden alarm. ‘What do you mean?’
Hekla gave her a startled look. ‘You know, the hotel is for sale.’
‘For sale?’ Panic clutched at Lucy, her stomach clenching in fear. A change of ownership often meant a change of management. ‘What now?’
‘Ja, there is a prospective buyer. They are negotiating but Mr Pedersen said that it is likely that things will be signed in December.’
Lucy swallowed hard. December. Her contract was up in December. At her sharp indrawn breath, Hekla looked at her.
‘Don’t worry. They will need a manager.’
‘Yes but…’ Not necessarily me. Now the short-term contract made perfect sense, she realised with a sinking heart. Not the probationary period she’d assumed because they were taking her without proper references but short term because they wouldn’t need her.
‘Petta reddast,’ reminded Hekla gently. ‘It will work out. I think already you have good ideas. You have good experience, ja?’
Lucy nodded. She did have bloody good experience. The best. She could make this work. Maybe she needed to believe in herself, she always had done before. Everything had been fine before that damned video had gone viral, until head office had fired her, before Chris had shafted her so well and truly.
Hvolsvöllur was even smaller than Lucy had expected, the town sitting in a flat vale with a few roads. Red rooved houses lined the roads as Hekla drove through, pointing out where her cousins had lived, an uncle, her school friend’s mother’s house. It seemed as if Hekla knew everyone in town. She knew exactly where to go to buy the coffee machine that had been their principal purpose and within half an hour they were done.
‘Would you like to stop in the tourist shop, Una Local?’ she asked. ‘It has some nice things.’
‘That would be nice,’ said Lucy gloomily. ‘I might have to buy Christmas presents to take home with me.’ Something for Daisy who’d been so good to her this past year and her Mum and Dad who thought this was a great adventure and had no idea what had driven her to make such a radical career change.
Hekla shook her head. ‘Petta reddast. You are an Icelander now. A solution will come.’
‘I hope so,’ muttered Lucy, who until now deliberately hadn’t thought beyond mid-December.
‘It will,’ said Hekla, with what Lucy now thought of her as Viking Princess resilience.
The shop wasn’t the prettiest building, it looked more like a series of three airport hangers, painted red, yellow and blue with a large puffin painted on the front door, but inside the white airy space was filled with well-displayed traditional Icelandic crafts and gifts on little wooden tables. Fairy lights were strung around the ceiling and Lucy did a double take at the sight of a bicycle suspended on its side and the various ornaments dangling from the spokes of the wheels. On the walls, hanging from hangers on hooks, there was a fine selection of the heavy wool jumpers she associated with Northern Europe, the necklines decorated with the familiar Scandinavian knitted patterns, along with woollen poncho style tops, scarves and hats. There were pretty watercolours of puffins, photographs of hardy Icelandic ponies, papier mâché trolls, printed cushions and colourful tea-towels. Everything,
