kicked in their sleep or lay crossways. Laura and Lars-Eivind weren’t usually able to get much sleep when the children were sharing the bed, so the rule was no children in the bed at night, but tonight it didn’t matter if they got no sleep and it didn’t matter if the children slept in their bed. It would be nice. Everything would turn out fine.
“Drive carefully,” she added to Erika, but Erika had already hung up.
Chapter 35
The cramped little hall had a black tiled floor and the walls were of untreated pine, studded with hooks and pegs for all sorts of winter garments—garments that generally ended up lying on the floor in little pools of melted snow. For the third time that day, Laura stood in this detestable, dark little room that she dreamt of redecorating in the style of the spacious, spotless white halls pictured in the interior design magazines.
(If the kitchen is the heart of the house, then the hall is the open hands of the house. It is the hall that welcomes you, your family, and your guests every day!)
She put on an extra woolen sweater, her anorak, thick boots, a long scarf, and a hat. Her gloves were lying in one of the puddles on the floor; they were wet through, and she had to rummage in the cupboards to find some others. She found a yellow woolen mitten and a brown lined leather glove that some visitor must have left behind. They would have to do. Eventually, when she was nearly at the shops, she would take off the mitten and the glove and put them in her trolley. Laura was going into town to buy the dinner. First to the Turkish shop, where they had the freshest fruit, the fresh vegetables; then to the fishmonger; then to the wineshop; and finally to the supermarket. She left the car where it was and took her blue shopping trolley. This evening, once she’d put the children to bed and read and sung to them (without rushing it), Lars-Eivind would finally be served a well-composed meal. It was a long time since she’d last done that. Soup first: possibly a clear meat broth, made from scratch, with horseradish. Laura felt in her anorak pocket to check that she had her money; then she opened the front door and went out, pulling the shopping trolley after her. Sometime today, in a little while, maybe even on the way to the Turkish greengrocer’s, she would ring Molly.
Hello, it’s Laura. Erika’s on her way to Hammarsö. Shall we go, too?
Neither Laura nor Erika had spoken to Molly for several months, and there was no other way of asking her.
There’s always the risk he could die soon,
she might add, though it would sound melodramatic. Molly would say no. She would say no in her ringing voice, and then she would laugh. Molly would say she didn’t care if Father died. She had once cooked a dinner for him, when she was just seventeen, and he hadn’t turned up. When Molly was little, Isak used to lift her high in the air and spin her around the living room, and then Molly would stretch her arms wide and pretend she was a big bird.
Chapter 36
Laura was seven. She had walked a long way. She had walked to the shop and back for her mother, Rosa, and for that she got an ice cream. It was a summer’s day on Hammarsö in
1975
, and Laura had a shopping trolley even back then. The shopping trolley was full of groceries and she pulled it after her along the dirt road.
“There’s nothing more practical for shopping than a decent-size trolley,” Rosa would say.
As soon as Laura had put the groceries away in the kitchen cupboards and drawers, she would lie down in the tall grass below the white limestone house and read Erika’s Norwegian magazines.
If a Norwegian opened his or her mouth and said something, Laura didn’t understand a word; Norwegian was almost as incomprehensible as Danish.
Erika had told her that everybody who lived in Norway could understand Swedish. That was because the Norwegians had Swedish TV. They had Norwegian TV
and
Swedish TV. In Sweden, nobody understood Norwegian, and
“Drive carefully,” she added to Erika, but Erika had already hung up.
Chapter 35
The cramped little hall had a black tiled floor and the walls were of untreated pine, studded with hooks and pegs for all sorts of winter garments—garments that generally ended up lying on the floor in little pools of melted snow. For the third time that day, Laura stood in this detestable, dark little room that she dreamt of redecorating in the style of the spacious, spotless white halls pictured in the interior design magazines.
(If the kitchen is the heart of the house, then the hall is the open hands of the house. It is the hall that welcomes you, your family, and your guests every day!)
She put on an extra woolen sweater, her anorak, thick boots, a long scarf, and a hat. Her gloves were lying in one of the puddles on the floor; they were wet through, and she had to rummage in the cupboards to find some others. She found a yellow woolen mitten and a brown lined leather glove that some visitor must have left behind. They would have to do. Eventually, when she was nearly at the shops, she would take off the mitten and the glove and put them in her trolley. Laura was going into town to buy the dinner. First to the Turkish shop, where they had the freshest fruit, the fresh vegetables; then to the fishmonger; then to the wineshop; and finally to the supermarket. She left the car where it was and took her blue shopping trolley. This evening, once she’d put the children to bed and read and sung to them (without rushing it), Lars-Eivind would finally be served a well-composed meal. It was a long time since she’d last done that. Soup first: possibly a clear meat broth, made from scratch, with horseradish. Laura felt in her anorak pocket to check that she had her money; then she opened the front door and went out, pulling the shopping trolley after her. Sometime today, in a little while, maybe even on the way to the Turkish greengrocer’s, she would ring Molly.
Hello, it’s Laura. Erika’s on her way to Hammarsö. Shall we go, too?
Neither Laura nor Erika had spoken to Molly for several months, and there was no other way of asking her.
There’s always the risk he could die soon,
she might add, though it would sound melodramatic. Molly would say no. She would say no in her ringing voice, and then she would laugh. Molly would say she didn’t care if Father died. She had once cooked a dinner for him, when she was just seventeen, and he hadn’t turned up. When Molly was little, Isak used to lift her high in the air and spin her around the living room, and then Molly would stretch her arms wide and pretend she was a big bird.
Chapter 36
Laura was seven. She had walked a long way. She had walked to the shop and back for her mother, Rosa, and for that she got an ice cream. It was a summer’s day on Hammarsö in
1975
, and Laura had a shopping trolley even back then. The shopping trolley was full of groceries and she pulled it after her along the dirt road.
“There’s nothing more practical for shopping than a decent-size trolley,” Rosa would say.
As soon as Laura had put the groceries away in the kitchen cupboards and drawers, she would lie down in the tall grass below the white limestone house and read Erika’s Norwegian magazines.
If a Norwegian opened his or her mouth and said something, Laura didn’t understand a word; Norwegian was almost as incomprehensible as Danish.
Erika had told her that everybody who lived in Norway could understand Swedish. That was because the Norwegians had Swedish TV. They had Norwegian TV
and
Swedish TV. In Sweden, nobody understood Norwegian, and
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