The trees cast long shadows across the field, and flickering patches of murk pursued the running boys, who merged into a mass and dispersed again and again. But some boys had started walking instead of running, some were bent over, supporting themselves on their knees, and to my disappointment I realized the game was coming to an end.
“Well, I’d better be getting home,” one said.
“Me, too,” a second said.
“Let’s keep going for a bit,” a third said.
“I’ve got to be off, too.”
“Shall we make new teams then?”
“I’m off.”
“Me, too.”
Within a couple of minutes the whole scene had evaporated, and the field was empty.
The wrapping paper Mom had bought was blue and semitransparent. We sat in the kitchen, I unrolled a piece and cut it to size; if the edge was uneven and jagged Mom straightened it. Then I placed the book on top, spread out the two wing-like flaps, folded the paper over them, and taped down the corners. Mom adjusted what needed to be adjusted along the way. Otherwise she sat knitting a sweater that was meant for me. I had chosen it from one of her pattern magazines, a white sweater with dark brown edges, it was different, because the collar was high and straight and there was a split on each side at the bottom so that it hung a bit like a loincloth. I really liked the Indian style and kept a weather eye on how far she had got with it.
Mom did a lot of needlework. She had crocheted the curtains in the living room and the kitchen, and she had sewn the white curtains in our bedrooms, Yngve’s with a brown hem and brown floral print, mine with a red hem and a red floral print. In addition, she knitted sweaters and woolly hats, darned socks, patched trousers and jackets. When she wasn’t doing that, or cooking and washing up, or baking bread, she read. We had whole shelves full of books, something none of the other parents had. She also had friends, unlike Dad, mostly women of the same age at her workplace, whom she visited now and then, if they didn’t come here, that is. I liked all of them. There was Dagny, whose son and daughter, Tor and Liv, I went to kindergarten with. There was Anne Mai, who was fat and happy and always brought us some chocolate, she drove a Citroën and lived in Grimstad, where I had visited her once with the kindergarten. And there was Marit, who had a son, Lars, the same age as Yngve, and a daughter, Marianne, who was two years younger. They didn’t come here often, Dad didn’t like it, but perhaps once a month one or more of them came; then I was allowed to sit with them for a while and bask in the radiance. And occasionally in the evening we went to the arts and crafts workshop in Kokkeplassen, it was the kind of place where you could do all sorts of things, the children of other employees at my mothers workplace went there, too, and that was where we used to make our Christmas presents.
Mom’s face was gentle but serious. She had tucked her long hair behind her ears.
“Dag Lothar saw an adder today!” I said.
“Oh?” she said. “Where was that then?”
“On the path to the Rock. He almost stepped right on it! Fortunately, though, it was just as frightened as he was and slithered off into the bushes.”
“Lucky for him,” she said.
“Were there adders when you were growing up?”
She shook her head.
“There aren’t any adders in Vestland.”
“Why not?”
She chuckled.
“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s too cold for them?”
I dangled my legs and drummed my fingers on the table while humming, Kisses for me, save all your kisses for me, bye bye, baby, bye bye.
“Kanestrøm caught tons of mackerel today,” I said. “I saw them. He showed me the bucket. It was full to the brim. Are we going to get a boat soon, do you think?”
“Take it easy now,” she said. “A boat and a cat! Well, it’s not impossible, but not this year, that’s for certain. Next year maybe. It all costs money, you know. But you can ask Dad.”
She passed me back the scissors.
You ask Dad, I thought, but didn’t say anything, trying to slide the blade of the scissors along without making a cut, but it stopped, I squeezed the handles together and made a jagged cut.
“Goodness, Yngve’s late,” she said, looking out of the window.
“He’s in safe hands,” I said.
She smiled at me.
“I suppose so,” she said.
“The note,” I said. “The swimming class. Can you sign it now?”
She nodded. I got up and ran along the landing into my room, took the form from my satchel, and was about to run back when the door downstairs opened and I realized what I had done as my heart skipped an extra beat.
Dad’s heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. I stood motionless outside the bathroom as his gaze met mine.
“No running indoors!” he said. “How many times do I have to tell you? It makes the whole house bang and shake. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
He came up and walked past me, his broad back in the white shirt. When I saw he was heading for the kitchen all my happiness evaporated. But I had to go back in there, where he was.
Mom was sitting as before. Dad was standing at the window, looking out. I put the form carefully down on the table.
“Here,” I said.
There was one book left. I sat down and made a start on it. Only my hands moved, everything else was still. Dad was mulling over something.
“Yngve’s not home yet, is he?” he said.
“No,” Mom said. “I’m getting a bit uneasy.”
Dad looked down at the table.
“What’s that you’ve brought?” he asked.
“The swimming class,” I answered. “Mom was going to sign it.”
“Let me have a look,” he said, taking the form and reading it. Then he took the pen from the table, wrote his name, and passed the form to me.
“There we are,” he said, nodding in the direction of the table. “Now you take all this stuff to your room. You can finish it there. We’re going to have supper now.”
“Yes, Dad,” I said. Put the books in a pile, rolled up the paper, and stuffed it under my arm, grabbed the scissors and the Scotch tape with one hand, the books with the other, and left the kitchen.
While I was at the desk cutting the paper for the last book, a bike rolled up on the gravel outside. Just then the front door opened.
Dad stood waiting for him in the hall when he came up the stairs.
“What time’s this supposed to be?” he said.
Yngve’s answer was too subdued for me to hear, but the explanation must have been good because the next moment he went into his room. I laid the book on the paper I had cut out, folded it, and placed another book on top as a weight while I tried to pick the tape free from the roll. When I finally loosened a corner and pulled some off, it tore and I had to start again.
Behind me the door opened. It was Yngve.
“What are you up to?” he said.
“Wrapping my books, as you can see,” I said.
“We had buns and pop after the training,” Yngve said. “In the clubhouse. And there were girls on the team. One of them was really good.”
“Girls?” I said. “Is that allowed?”
“Apparently. And Karl Frederik was great.”
Through the open window came the sound of voices and footsteps going up the hill. I stuck the bit of tape I had on my finger on the paper and went over to see who it was.
Geir and Leif Tore. They had stopped outside the drive to Leif Tore’s and were laughing about something. Then they said bye, and Geir ran the short distance to his drive. When he turned in there and I saw his face for the first time there was a little smile on his lips. His hand was clenched around something in his shorts pocket.