The Journey Home: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

slamming the door.
    When I was passing through reception later that day, on some other errand, I took a quick look at the list of rates. I must admit that I felt quite upset with myself when I saw that the chauffeur appeared to have got the better of Anthony in their dealings, if you can put it like that, as it seemed to me after a brief glance that he had actually given us a more than 50 percent discount. To flare up like that, I said to myself, at Anthony of all people. It must be the trip.
    Neither of us referred to the matter again, behaving as if nothing had happened when we were alone together later that evening.
    But there is no denying that this incident has made me anxious and given me yet another reason to doubt whether any good will come of my journey to Iceland.
    We’re taking a break from our journey, after three hours’ driving, to have a late lunch. I don’t feel bad at all, having managed to doze off in the car for several minutes. The Jaguar is spacious and extremely well kept. The driver is pleasant too and doesn’t bother me with unnecessary chitchat. He told me when I woke up that I hadn’t missed much, as nothing to speak of had happened while I was asleep except a brief shower, which was over almost before it had begun. Though there were still drops on the window when I opened my eyes.
    There was nothing to disturb my peace as I sat in the back seat and made myself comfortable, nothing at all, which may explain why I began to wonder why I have always felt so contented on my travels through the English countryside. The answer probably lies in the words of the driver when he said that I hadn’t missed anything while I dozed. Before I dropped off, fields stretched out as far as the eye could see, divided either by hedgerows and trees or attractive stone dry walls. The roads which wound through the countryside were in perfect harmony with it, as if they had been there from time immemorial, the work of God rather than man. Of course, this landscape is noble in its way, though I find it tranquil more than anything else and free from contrived exclamation marks. Although the scenery which passed before my eyes this morning could hardly be considered dramatic compared to the Icelandic landscape, it has the advantage of not distracting one’s thoughts but resting them, allowing them to wander in peace. It occurred to me, as we drove past a mirrorlike lake, that from the time I first began to think for myself, I have tended to avoid journeys into the wilderness or anywhere that seemed remotely threatening.
    As we drove past the beautiful lake, glassy in its calm, I began to think about the harsh Icelandic landscape, the cold mountains and the fields that spend more time under snow than in the sun, recalling without warning various trips I hoped I’d forgotten. Feeling suddenly unwell I asked the driver to stop and then walked down to the edge of the lake. Out on the water there were two men in a boat fishing. Their movements were slow—or perhaps it was just the distance that made it seem as if they were hardly moving at all. The air was clear and refreshing after the rain and I breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of green growing things, and at that moment the clouds parted and sunshine spread out like a yellow cloth over the water and the boat. I felt better and we continued our journey.
    “I can’t remember ever having been carsick before,” I said to the driver as he opened the rear door for me and asked how I was feeling. “I must be a bit tired still.”
    As I look out the window at the landscape, my thoughts can’t help turning to the English people and their character.
    The English—here I permit myself to generalize, though of course I’m referring mainly to the upper middle classes and people from old families—the English are restrained and even-tempered by nature. They avoid showing their feelings, and if they’re at all given to self-analysis they keep the fact to themselves. They