Tales From Moominvalley (5 page)

The smooth rock shone redly under the rippling water, reflections of light danced over the fillyjonk's toes and gilded all ten of them.

She stood and mused. A new cap, orange-red perhaps? Or one could embroider reflections of light around the edge of the old one? In gold? But of course it wouldn't look the same because they wouldn't move. And besides, what does one need a new cap for when danger breaks loose? One might just as well perish in the old one...

The fillyjonk pulled her carpet ashore and slapped it down on the rock and sullenly stalked over it to stamp the water from it.

The weather was far too fine, quite unnatural.

Something or other had to happen. She knew it. Somewhere below the horizon something black and terrible was lurking - working larger, drawing nearer - faster and faster...

One doesn't even know what it is, the fillyjonk whispered to herself.

Her heart began to thump and her back felt cold, and she whirled around as if she had an enemy behind her. But the sea was glittering as before, the reflections danced over the floor in playful twists, and the faint summer wind comfortingly stroked her snout.

But it is far from easy to comfort a fillyjonk who is stricken with panic and doesn't know why. With shaking paws she spread her carpet to dry, scrambled together her soap and brush and went rushing homewards to put the tea-kettle on the fire. Gaffsie had promised to drop in at five o'clock.

*

The fillyjonk lived in a large and not very pretty house. Someone, who had wanted to get rid of old paint, had painted it dark green on the outside and brown all over the inside. The fillyjonk had rented it unfurnished from a hemulen who had assured her that her grandmother used to live there in the summer, when she was a young girl. And as the fillyjonk was very attached to her kindred and relatives she at once decided that she would honour her grandmother's memory by living in the same house.

The first evening she had sat on her doorstep and wondered about her grandmother who must have been very unlike herself in her youth. How curious that a genuine fillyjonk with a true sense of nature's beauty should have wanted to live on this glum and sandy shore! No garden to grow jam plums in! Not the smallest leafy tree or even bush to start an arbour with. Not even a nice view!

The fillyjonk sighed and looked forlornly at the green evening sea trimming the long beach with its breakers. Green water, white sand, red dried seaweed. An exact setting for disaster; not a single safe spot.

And afterwards, of course, the fillyjonk had found out that it was all a mistake. She had moved into this horrible house on this horrible beach quite unnecessarily. Her grandmother had lived elsewhere. That is life!

But by that time the fillyjonk had written letters to all her relatives about her summer house, and so she didn't think it proper to change her plans.

They might have thought her a little silly.

So the fillyjonk closed her door and tried to make the house cosy inside. This was not easy. The ceilings were so high that they always seemed full of shadows. The windows were large and solemn, and no lace curtains could give them a friendly look. They weren't windows for looking out of, they were windows to look in from - and the fillyjonk did not like this thought.

She tried to arrange cosy corners, but they never became cosy. Her furniture had a lost look. The chairs nestled close to the table, the sofa huddled against the wall and the lighted patches around the lamps were as dejected as a flash-light in a dark wood.

Like all fillyjonks she owned a lot of knick-knacks. Small mirrors, photographs framed in red velvet and little shells, china kittens and hemulens resting on pieces of crochet work, beautiful maxims embroidered in silk or silver, very small vases and nice mymble-shaped teacosies - well, all sorts of things that make life more easy and less dangerous, and large.

But all these beloved things of beauty lost their safety and their meaning in the bleak house by the sea. She moved them from table to sideboard and from sideboard to window-sill, but nowhere did they look right.

*

There they were again. Just as forlorn.

The fillyjonk stopped at the door and looked at her belongings to comfort herself. But they were just as helpless as she was. She went into the kitchen and laid the soap and scrubbing brush on the sink. Then she lighted the fire under the tea-kettle and took out her best gold-edged cups. She lifted down the cake-dish, nimbly blew off some crumbs and laid some iced little cakes on top of the others to impress Gaffsie.

Gaffsie never took milk with her tea, but the fillyjonk nevertheless put grandmother's little silver boat on the tray. The sugar lumps she shook out in a tiny plush basket with pearl-crusted handles.

While she set the tea-tray she felt quite calm and was able to shut off all thoughts of disaster.

It was a real pity that no nice flowers were to be found in this unlucky place. All the plants by the shore were cross and prickly little shrubs, and their flowers didn't match her drawing-room. The fillyjonk gave her table vase a displeased nudge and took a step towards the window to look for Gaffsie.

Then she thought hastily: No, no. I won't look for her. I'll wait for her knock. Then I run and answer the door, and we'll both be terribly delighted and sociable and have a good chat... If I look for her perhaps the beach will be quite empty all the way to the light-house. Or else I'll see just a tiny little spot coming, and I don't like to watch things that draw nearer and nearer... and still worse would it be, wouldn't it, if the little spot started to grow smaller and was going the other way...

The fillyjonk started to tremble. What's come over me, she thought. I mustn't talk about this with Gaffsie. She's really not the person I'd prefer to chat with at all, but then I don't know anybody else hereabouts.

There was a knock on the door. The fillyjonk went rushing out into the hall and was already talking on her way to the door.

'... and what splendid weather,' she shouted, 'and the sea, did you look at the sea... how blue today, how

friendly it looks, not a ripple! How are you, well, you look really radiant, and so I thought you would... But it's all this, of course, living like this, I mean, in the bosom of nature, and everything - it puts everything in order, doesn't it?'

She's more confused than usual, Gaffsie was thinking while she pulled off her gloves (because she was a real lady), and aloud she said:

'Exactly. How right you are, Mrs Fillyjonk.'

They sat down to the table, and the fillyjonk was so happy to have company that she prattled the sheerest nonsense and spilled tea all over the cloth.

Gaffsie said something nice about the cakes and the sugar bowl and everything she could think of, but about the flower vase she said nothing, of course. Gaffsie was a well-brought up person, and anybody could see that that wild, angry shrub didn't go well with the tea things.

After a while the fillyjonk stopped talking nonsense, and as Gaffsie didn't say anything at all, silence fell.

Then the sun clouded over and the table-cloth suddenly looked grey. The large solemn windows showed a mass of grey clouds, and the ladies could hear a new kind of wind coming in from the sea. Faint and far away, no more than a whisper.

'I saw you've had your carpet out for a wash, Mrs Fillyjonk,' Gaffsie said with great civility.

'Yes, sea-water's said to be the right thing for carpets,' the fillyjonk replied. 'The colours never run, and there's such a lovely smell...'

I must make Gaffsie understand, she thought. I have to tell somebody that I'm frightened, someone who can

answer me: But of course, I quite understand you must be. Or: Really, what on earth is there to be afraid of? A splendid summer day like today. Anything, but something.

'The cakes are my grandma's recipe,' said the fillyjonk. And then she leaned forward over the table and whispered:

'This calm is unnatural. It means something terrible is going to happen. Dear Gaffsie, believe me, we are so very small and insignificant, and so are our tea cakes and carpets and all those things, you know, and still they're so important, but always they're threatened by merciless-ness...'

'Oh,' said Gaffsie, feeling ill at ease.

'Yes, by mercilessness,' the fillyjonk continued rather breathlessly. 'By something one can't ask anything of, nor argue with, nor understand, and that never tells one anything. Something that one can see drawing near, through a black window-pane, far away on the road, far away to sea, growing and growing but not really showing itself until too late. Mrs Gaffsie, have you felt it? Tell me that you know what I'm talking about! Please!'

Gaffsie was very red in the face and sat twirling the sugar bowl in her paws and wishing that she had never come.

'There can be very sudden storms at this time of the year,' she said at last, cautiously.

The fillyjonk fell silent from disappointment. Gaffsie waited a while, then continued, slightly vexed:

'I hung out my washing last Friday, and believe me, there was such a wind quite suddenly that I found my best pillow-slips by the gate. What washing-material do you use, Mrs Fillyjonk?'

'I don't remember,' the fillyjonk answered, suddenly feeling very tired because Gaffsie didn't even try to understand her. 'Would you like some more tea?'

'Thank you, not any more,' Gaffsie said. 'What a nice visit, only too short. I'm afraid I'll have to start on my way soon.'

'Yes,' the fillyjonk said, 'I see.'

Darkness was falling over the sea, and the beach was mumbling to itself. It was a bit too early to light the lamp, but still too dark to be nice. Gaffsie's narrow nose was more wrinkled than usually, and one could see that she didn't feel at ease. But the fillyjonk didn't help her to take her leave, she didn't say a word but sat quite still, only breaking a couple of iced cakes into crumbs.

How painful, Gaffsie thought and smuggled her handbag under her arm. The south-wester slightly raised its voice outside.

'You were talking about wind,' the fillyjonk said suddenly. 'A wind that carries off your washing. But I'm speaking about cyclones. Typhoons, Gaffsie dear. Tornadoes, whirlwinds, sand-storms... Flood waves that carry houses away... But most of all I'm talking about myself and my fears, even if I know that's not done. I know everything will turn out badly. I think about that all the time. Even while I'm washing my carpet. Do you understand that? Do you feel the same way?'

'Have you tried vinegar,' said Gaffsie, staring into her teacup. 'The colours keep best if you have a little vinegar in the rinsing water.'