There will be little rest, for where will they find the time? To begin with, Sanna, who’s fallen asleep on the floor in her good coat, must be put to bed, but first the bedclothes must be unrolled, and the child’s mattress and blankets must be warmed against the tile stove before the crib can be made up and the child tucked in. And as long as they’re at it, they might just as well carry in the other beds and unroll the bedclothes and get that out of the way. And now that everything is so inviting, why not take a little nap themselves, since it’s only eight o’clock and they have the whole day ahead of them? It is the priest’s wife who makes this wise suggestion, considering they’ve been travelling day after day and have had far too little sleep. But the priest is wound up and says he’s too restless, there’s so much to see and do.
“We’ll get plenty of sleep in the grave,” he says brightly, but a laughing voice replies, “That’s no way for a priest to talk!”
It’s Brage Söderberg, from the Coast Guard, who in keeping with local custom has walked right in, especially since the door stood open. He has promptly demonstrated the proposition that Mona Kummel will repeat bitterly and triumphantly again and again in the years to come. “If you even think of lying down for half a second, for once in your life, for the first time in months, someone will walk in.”
He has undeniably walked in, smiling benignly, radiating a geniality and good humour that both Petter and his wife find indescribably captivating. Unembarrassed, he stands there in the midst of the crates and boxes, grinning. Also in keeping with local custom, Brage Söderberg has not introduced himself. They get his name later from the verger. He greets both of them heartily and welcomes them to the Örlands and says he has the Coast Guard cutter at the church dock and if they’re thinking of going to the Co-op for all the stuff they surely must need, then it would be no trouble to take them because he’s headed there himself to take on fuel.
“Thank you!” Petter says. “What a welcome offer, but are you sure it’s no trouble?”
“No trouble at all,” says the Coast Guardsman. “When you live on an island, you’ve got to chase your chances.”
To the Kummels’ ears this sounds wonderfully original, for they haven’t yet learned that this saying is a part of the standard local idiom. It’s a way of articulating the obvious nature of neighbourly help, a way of expressing any number of independent measures and creative solutions that do not always fit strictly within the limits of land-based law. The priest picks up the scent of an independence he has longed for all his landlocked life, and it ignites a great feeling of friendship towards the still nameless Brage Söderberg. He has come on the wings of dawn and made a laborious expedition seem weightless as a feather.
But the priest’s wife gets a jolt. She jumps up and pulls a sheet of paper from one bag and a pen from another. Standing at the sideboard, she writes frantically, stamps her feet and calls out apologetically, “Just another few seconds!” Brage Söderberg looks surprised and Petter begins to suspect that there’s maybe no need for such a rush. But his wife has no time to reflect on that possibility. The urgency that she believes must motivate the Coast Guardsman drives them off at good speed and, nearly running, she tells her husband all the things he must remember to buy, ask for, and place on order. She has certainly forgotten much, she cries, waving the list in the air, so he’ll have to use his wits, summon up all his common sense, think for himself. Now they just need to get moving, get a move on, away, and does he have the ration coupons? No, dear heaven! “Sorry, I’ll run,” and she runs back up at full speed.
“Wow!” Brage Söderberg does not know them well enough to comment, but Pastor Kummel, a little embarrassed, says his wife is afraid they’re intruding on his work day. She’ll calm down once they get organized a bit. While they wait, he inspects the Coast Guard cutter with genuine interest and the two of them discuss horsepower and seaworthiness, and the priest hopes he may ask for advice when he has the means to buy a motorboat, something he eagerly anticipates doing. But by then his wife is already back, a little short of breath, her cheeks red. She gives him not just the ration cards but also, triumphantly, his wallet, which she has found lying on the kitchen table. In among the dishes! Must he always unburden himself of his wallet as soon as he enters the house? Couldn’t he just leave it in the pocket of his coat, thin as it is? Anyway, thanks to her attentiveness and presence of mind, he will not have to shame them by asking for credit on his very first visit to the store.
But now get going! And as the boat growls away across the sound, it seems to move more slowly than Mona Kummel, who steams back up to the parsonage one more time. But when she’s out of sight up on the crown of the hill, she slows down just a bit. She is alone, although there’s a roaring in her ears from all the engine noises and all the talk and the lack of sleep these last twenty-four hours, and she allows herself to catch her breath and gaze out at the church, which stands there red-capped in a hint of spring greenery against a blazing blue sea and bright sky. Beautiful, she lets herself think. Fresh air, though a little raw. I’ll need to bundle up Sanna properly until midsummer!
She also thinks about how they now have a house and a home and a life of their own, and with joy in her heart she goes into the parsonage and starts dragging the furniture into place and unpacking their belongings. But first, in her own kitchen, she reaches out her hand and takes the last slice of bread, heavy with butter, which maybe she should have offered to the Coast Guardsman, although she didn’t think of it at the time. From now on, she’ll churn her own butter, bake her own bread, do everything one does on a small farm. She sees that the verger’s Signe has carried in a pail of milk, still warm, and if Petter can get some flour, she’ll make pancakes, and if he brings home some potatoes, all will be well. This evening he can row out and lay a net by the dock, because they bought the old priest’s boat and his perch net at auction. (Where their agents were Petter’s much too chatty and therefore inattentive and easily cheated relatives, but disappointments of that kind are only to be expected.)
Mona Kummel loves her husband. Love between young married couples is hardly uncommon, but the glow in her breast is something more. It’s hard to hold inside her chest, hard to keep it from breaking out like a welder’s flame and singeing the hair and eyebrows of everyone who comes near and encroaches on his time and on the space that is rightfully hers. Because the priest is so often away or occupied with church business, she uses industrious activity to control the flame.
Sanna, who is now awake, knows she’s better off sitting quietly in her crib than chasing out into the whirlwind now rushing through the house. Mama dashes past the open door and sees that Sanna is up. “Sleep, go to sleep!” she calls. “Mama’s here.” There’s a scraping and squeaking as she shoves the big sideboard into place in the parlour. A momentary pause while she judges the distance between the two corners of the wall, then another scrape and squeak so it’s exactly in the middle, to the centimetre. Then the table and chairs are put in place. The boards of the packing crate break open with a crack, and she begins to unpack and fill the sideboard. The sounds move farther away and Sanna cries in her loneliness. Mama is so far away in the strange house that she has to cry as loudly as she can and stand up in her bed and scream “Mama! Mama!” at the top of her lungs before Mama finally hears.
“Hush, Sanna!” she says. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Do you want to get up?” Quickly she lifts Sanna from her crib and carries her through the parlour and the dining room into the kitchen. She feels the back of her pants and is pleased that she’s managed to get out the potty and plant Sanna on it before she’s had an accident. “Good girl!” says Mama, and suddenly Sanna is sitting on her throne and looking around. She’s seeing many things for the first time, and there is much to remark upon, but she doesn’t know the words. “Beh” maybe, or “Deh”. “Deh! Deh!” she says and points. “Yes,” Mama says. “Window! We’ll get curtains when we can. Paper curtains are so tiresome, I think the kitchen will have to wait until we’ve got some fabric.”