Then they hear Sanna coming through the dining room, so big now that she can reach the door handle if she stands on her toes, and so strong she can pull it down and open it. The verger and Hanna form a wall in front of the stove. Sanna amazed.
“Good morning, darling,” says Mama. “Did you sleep well? Come, let’s go back to the bedroom. There’s something I have to tell you.” And so they walk away, just the two of them. No one else is invited. The bedroom door closes.
It doesn’t take long. No shriek is heard, or sobbing. What does she say? “Now, the bad news is that Papa is dead. He drowned last night. Fell through the ice. It’s going to take us a while to grasp the fact that he’s gone. Don’t be afraid. I’m here, and Lillus, and Aunt Hanna.” Maybe no more than that. And Sanna, curious and full of questions from dawn to dusk, does not make a sound. Asks no questions, for what do you ask? Just one question, “When is Papa coming home?” And the answer, that he’s not coming home, that he’s in heaven now, what can she say to that? It happens quietly and calmly, and then Mona is back in the kitchen.
“Hanna, maybe you could help Sanna get dressed and get Lillus up, while I see to the cows. And then we need to get some men who can carry …” Away the body, she means. They can’t have him lying there dead, scaring people. The kitchen is the natural gathering place in the morning, and how could they keep Sanna out for any length of time? She gets a sheet and spreads it over him, and the verger notices that the Coast Guardsmen are still there, standing in the lea of the cow barn, smoking. Brage too has thought about the body and wonders if they need help, so he’s in no hurry to leave. The verger asks them to fetch the sackcloth stretcher, which is rolled up in the sacristy in case someone should faint in the heat of the crowded church, and wait outside. There will have to be a shroud, but then it would be a big help if they could do the heavy lifting and carrying.
Sister Hanna is in a quandary, not knowing if she dares to ask, but asks anyway. “What shall we do about a shroud? Will that sheet be enough?”
Mona is banging around with the milk buckets in the hall and answers with little or no show of interest. “Make a shroud if it’s supposed to be done some special way. Then get him out to the shed without letting the girls see.” She goes into the bedroom and sees that Lillus is still asleep. Sanna has climbed into the crib beside her and sits there with an ugly, introverted expression on her face, staring straight ahead. Just looking at her makes her angry. “Wait till I come back,” she says. “Then we’ll have tea.”
She takes the milk cans and goes, and the verger follows her although she says forcefully that she needs no help. When they’re gone, Hanna and Signe work together to shroud the body, awkward and difficult down on the floor. The wartime sheet, with Mona’s monogram, is barely long enough and they have to start over from the beginning with less of the sheet around his head and shoulders so it will reach all the way to his feet. When they’re finished, Signe calls the Coast Guardsmen to come in. They carry in the stretcher and lift the shrouded body onto it. With a thought to the girls, in case they should look out the window, Brage grabs the blanket still there in the kitchen and throws it across the body so it will look like any ordinary load. They each take one end, Hanna opens the door, they go out and walk in step, at a respectful pace, down to the boat shed. They put down the stretcher while they arrange sawhorses and planks, then lift the body in its shroud and lay it out. Brage hesitates but then spreads the blanket over it in case someone should come in accidentally. Then they walk down to the Coast Guard cutter in the sludge of broken ice by the dock. When Hanna sees the boat nosing its way out of the bay, she knows they’ve finished.
Inside the cow barn, Mona plunges into the warmth of her animals, their faith in her ability to feed and meet their needs, to gently draw the milk from their udders. Apple and Goody mumble in a friendly way, but the sheep bray and bleat as if there were some danger she would forget them. The hens flap their wings, wanting and not wanting her to collect their eggs, praise them, and leave an empty hollow in the hay. It seems to Mona that she could endure it here. She takes the milking stool and sinks down by Goody’s side, an outrageous case of lèse majesté, because the laws of the universe require that Apple should be milked first. She shuffles and shifts and bawls. “Pardon me,” Mona says and almost laughs. She moves to Apple’s stall, teat salve in hand, milk pail in place. And just sits there, her head resting against the indignant cow, who must now be slaughtered in the autumn.
“As if she were crying,” the verger thinks as he busily gathers forkfuls of hay and wanders back and forth between the cows and over to the manger in the sheepfold. Yes, there by the cows, she’s crying, wiping her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her milking coat, starts milking again, stops, shakes and sobs. Goody, the only creature on the earth she could live with, stops eating and looks over the edge of her stall, growls like a little bear deep in her stomach—don’t cry. Then Mona starts to cry big tears that roll down onto the cement floor. “Good,” the verger thinks, weeping openly as he takes the water buckets and draws water from the cowbarn well and goes back in and gives it to the cows and sheep. He glances at her as he mucks out and cleans the floor. Between attacks of sobbing, she milks evenly and energetically, moves to sit beside Goody, and Goody, better than any human being, lets her cry, all four of her stomachs bulging with sympathy.
The verger does all he can to help. Sees that she’s finished milking and takes the two pails from her. The big milk basin in position, the cloth in the strainer, in with the first batch of milk.
“Thanks,” Mona says. She stands up, takes her stool in one hand, pats Goody. “We have to go now. So much butter and milk and cream we’re going to need these coming days!” She’s already thinking about all the food that will have to be prepared for the funeral, about what she’ll have to order from the shop, about where she’s going to put all of Petter’s unavoidable relatives. Who take a laden table and good beds for given.
She dries her nose a last time, and lifts her head, ready for battle. “Yes, dear Lord. I’m guessing the phone is going to start ringing off the hook.”
Together, she and the verger walk back to the parsonage, talking about everyday things. She kicks off her boots in the hall and hangs up her milking coat, hesitates about whether to go into the parlour or the kitchen but goes resolutely into the kitchen. Lillus comes toddling gaily towards her. Her cold is much better and she’s had a good long sleep. “Papa,” she says, and it makes Mona furious that it’s Papa Lillus thinks of when she sees her Mama! She thinks Papa has been in the cow barn with Mama, which he is sometimes, and how she’ll sit on his lap and have her morning tea.
“Papa’s not here!” she says, incensed. “Papa’s dead!”
Lillus doesn’t know what it is to be dead, but she can see that it makes Mama really angry. She looks scared and backs away. The tears come as if someone had pushed a button. “For shame! Be quiet, Lillus! Where is Sanna?”
Sanna comes at once, not a word, and takes Lillus by the hand and takes her to the table. Sister Hanna lifts her into her highchair. She and the verger and Signe feel helpless and uncertain. They expect her to pick up her children and hug them, but she keeps them, too, at a distance.
“Come, Mona,” says Sister Hanna. “Hot tea and sandwiches. Eat while you can. The Mellom priest will be calling soon.”