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winter, but otherwise he had been staying in his son’s small apartment down in Borgholm. He had seemed almost shame-faced when he explained that the village had begun to feel too cold and lonely during the winter. He couldn’t cope with it any longer, and Gerlof understood completely.
    ‘Anyone else here?’
    John shook his head. ‘There hasn’t been anybody around in the village since New Year, apart from the odd weekend visitor.’
    ‘What about Astrid Linder?’
    ‘She gave up as well in the end, and closed up the cottage. I think she went to the Riviera in January.’
    ‘I see,’ said Gerlof, remembering that Astrid had been a doctor before she retired. ‘I should think she’s got a fair bit of money tucked away.’
    They fell silent. Gerlof couldn’t see any more butterflies. He listened to the faint soughing of the wind over in the trees and said, ‘I don’t think I’ll be here much longer, John.’
    ‘Here in the village?’
    ‘No, I mean here,’ said Gerlof, pointing to his chest, where he presumed the soul and therefore the source of life was located.
    It didn’t sound quite as dramatic as he’d expected, and John merely nodded and asked, ‘Are you ill, then?’
    ‘No more than usual,’ said Gerlof. ‘But I’m very weary. I ought to do something useful, a bit of carpentry, paint the cottage like I used to do … but I just sit here.’
    John looked away, as if the conversation was hard work. ‘Start with something small,’ he suggested. ‘Go down to the sea and clean up the gig.’
    Gerlof sighed. ‘It’s full of holes.’
    ‘We can fix it,’ said John. ‘And there’s a new millennium in two years, a new era. You want to be around for that, don’t you?’
    ‘Maybe … we’ll just have to see what this new era is like.’ Gerlof wanted to change the subject, and nodded in the direction of the fence. ‘So what do you think of the neighbours, then? Across the road.’
    John said nothing.
    ‘Don’t you know them?’
    ‘Well, I’ve seen them. But they’ve hardly been here up till now, I don’t really know much about them.’
    ‘Me neither. But I’m curious – aren’t you?’
    ‘They’re rich,’ said John. ‘Rich folk from the mainland.’
    ‘Definitely,’ said Gerlof. ‘You need to let them know you’re around.’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘So you can do some jobs for them before the campers arrive.’
    ‘That’s a good idea.’
    Gerlof nodded, leaning forward slightly. ‘And make sure they pay you well.’
    ‘Good thinking,’ said John, looking almost cheerful.

7
    ‘So you’ll be staying here for a few weeks now?’ asked the young estate agent as he handed over the keys and the last of the paperwork to Vendela Larsson. ‘Enjoying the spring sunshine?’
    ‘That’s what we’re hoping,’ said Vendela with a laugh.
    She often laughed nervously when she was talking to people she didn’t know. But she was hoping the habit would disappear now she was on the island. A lot of things were going to be different now.
    ‘Good, excellent,’ said the agent. ‘That means you’ll be helping to extend the tourist season, like real pioneers … Showing people on the mainland that it’s possible to enjoy the peace and quiet of Öland for more than just a few weeks in the summer.’
    Vendela nodded.
    Enjoy the peace and quiet? That depended on whether she would be able to relax, of course, and whether Max would settle and be able to get his cookery book finished.
    Right now he was in the heated garage washing the car. Every drop of blood must go. Since they had arrived at the summer house Max hadn’t said a word about what had happened on the way, but fury surrounded him like a sour smell.
    Vendela had been left to deal with the agent, and she was trying not to shiver in the cold wind. It was evening; the sun had set over the sound and taken every vestige of warmth with it. She really wanted to go back indoors.
    The agent looked around in the twilight, over at the large