“What are you crying about?” he said.
I told him what had happened.
“Couldn’t you just have run off?” he said.
“No, they were in my way.”
“They pushed you. Couldn’t you have pushed them?”
“No, they were much bigger and stronger than me,” I sobbed.
“Surely you don’t have to blub like that because of it,” Yngve said. “Would it help if I gave you some of mine?”
“Ye-e-s,” I hiccuped.
“Not a lot, though. But some. This one and this one and this one and this one, for example. And maybe this one. There you go. Is that better now?”
“Yes,” I said. “Can I sit here as well?”
“You can sit here until you’ve eaten these. Then you’ve got to go.”
“OK.”
After I had eaten the candy and washed my face in cold water it felt as if I was starting afresh. Mom was in the kitchen, I could hear, she was cooking, the fan was blowing. All the time I had been upstairs I hadn’t heard anything from Dad, so he must have been in his study.
I went into the kitchen and sat down on a chair.
“Did you buy some candy today?” Mom asked. She was standing by the stove and turning what was probably minced meat in the frying pan. It was sizzling and spitting. There was a pan on the other plate hissing away inaudibly, drowned by the noise of the fan.
“Yup,” I said.
“Did you go all the way down to the Fina station?” She always said, “the Fina station,” never just “Fina,” as we did.
“Yes,” I said. “What are we having?”
“Casserole with rice, I thought.”
“And pineapples?” She smiled.
“No, not pineapples. That’s a Mexican dish.”
“Oh, yes.”
There was a pause. Mom tore open a bag and poured the contents over the meat, then she measured some water in a jug and poured that on top. As soon as that was done, the water was bubbling in the pan and she poured in the rice. She sat down at the other side of the table, pressed her hands against her back, and stretched.
“What do you actually do in Kokkeplassen?” I said.
“Surely you know, don’t you? You’ve been there many times.”
“You take care of the people living there.”
“Yes, you could put it like that.”
“But why are they there, actually? Why don’t they live at home?”
She considered that question at length. Indeed, she thought for so long that my mind was on other things by the time she answered.
“Many of the people who live there suffer from anxiety. Do you know what that is?”
I shook my head.
“It’s when you’re afraid of something and you don’t know what it is.”
“Are they afraid all the time?”
She nodded.
“Yes, they are. And then I talk to them. Do a variety of activities with them to make them less afraid.”
“But …,” I said. “Aren’t they afraid of one thing in particular? Or are they just afraid?”
“Yes, that’s exactly how it is. They’re just afraid. But then it passes and then they move back home.”
There was another pause.
“Why did you ask about that? Is it something you’ve been wondering about?”
“Nope. It was Frøken. We had to tell her what our parents did. I said you worked at Kokkeplassen, and she asked what you did there. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. But do you know what Geir said? He said his mother taught the people who were where she worked to tie their shoelaces!”
“That’s a good way of putting it. The ones she works with aren’t afraid. But they have difficulty doing the little chores we take for granted. Like cooking and washing. And getting dressed. So Martha goes there and helps them.”
She got up and stirred the pot.
“They’re loonies, aren’t they?” I said.
“Mentally handicapped is the expression,” she said, looking at me. “Loony is a very ugly word.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
A door opened on the floor below.
“I’m going to see Yngve,” I said, getting up.
“You do that,” Mom said.
I walked as fast as I could without running. If I set off as soon as I heard the first door I would reach Yngve’s room before Dad had come up the stairs and seen me. If I set off when I heard the second door he would see me.
Now I could hear the first footstep on the stairs as I closed the door behind me.
Yngve was still on his bed reading. He had a soccer magazine now.
“Food ready soon?” he said.
“I think so,” I said. “Can I borrow a comic?”
“Help yourself,” he said. “But be gentle with it.”
Dad walked past outside. I bent down over the pile of comic books on the shelf. He kept his comics in collections, so The Phantom was in a file, for example, while mine lay all strewn about. He was also a member of the Phantom Club.
“Can I take the whole file?” I said.
“Out of the question,” he said.
“The annual then?”
“You can have that,” he said. “But bring it back when you’ve finished!”
On Saturdays we had cold rice pudding in the morning and a hot meal in the evening, usually a casserole, always in the dining room, and not in the kitchen where we normally ate. There was a napkin by each place. Mom and Dad drank beer or wine with the food; we were given a soft drink. After eating we watched TV. More often than not there was some Broadway-style show from a studio in Oslo, with women dressed in net stockings, jackets, and hats and carrying canes, while men in dinner jackets, white scarves, and hats and carrying canes came down a white staircase singing some song or other. Frequently it was “New York, New York.” Sølvi Wang, whom Mom liked, usually was featured. Leif Juster, Arve Opsahl, and Dag Frøland were other regular contributors to Saturday night TV. Wenche Myhre used to perform a sketch playing a young girl in a nursery, or there was the Eurovision Song Contest, which, aside from the FA Cup Final, the European Cup Final, and Wimbledon, was the pinnacle of the year’s TV.
On this evening, a man dressed in rags sat on a roof singing and he had an incredibly deep voice. Oul Man Rivå, he sang. I was humming the song all evening. Oul Man Rivå, I sang as I was brushing my teeth, Oul Man Rivå, I sang as I was getting undressed, Oul Man Rivå, I sang lying in bed and going to sleep.
Mom and Dad had closed the sliding door and were in the living room sitting and chatting, smoking, listening to music, and finishing off the bottle of wine after dinner. Between the songs I could just hear Dad’s rumbling voice and was aware that Mom said something in the pauses, although I couldn’t hear her.
I fell asleep. When I awoke they were still there. Were they going to talk all night, or what? I thought and fell asleep again.
The warm, bright September days were summer’s last burst of energy before abruptly crumbling, and in its place came rain. T-shirts and shirts were exchanged for sweaters and long trousers, jackets were put on in the morning and, when the torrential autumn rain set in, rubber boots and raincoats. Streams swelled, gravel roads were covered in puddles, water poured down the gutters in the streets, bringing with it sand, small stones, and pine and spruce needles. Beach life stopped, people no longer went on trips in their boats on the weekends, and the traffic to and from the pontoons was all about fishing now. Dad also got out his fishing equipment, the rod, the reel, the lures, and the gaff, put on his dark-green oilskins, and chugged to the far side of the island, where some weekends he stood alone for hours, fishing for the big cod that were there during the winter season. It was very appropriate that the swimming class started at this time because there was something unnatural about the thought of swimming in an indoor pool when the sun was baking hot outside. It was every Tuesday evening all autumn, and everyone in the class had signed up. Since Mom left for work before I got up in the morning I reminded her about the course the night before, so that she would remember to buy me a swimming cap on her way home. We should have done it a long time ago, but for some reason or other it hadn’t happened. When I heard her car coming up the hill I ran down into the hall and waited. She came in wearing her coat, carrying a bag over her shoulder, and, on seeing me, smiled a weary smile. No plastic bag from a sports shop in evidence anywhere. Perhaps it was in her handbag? After all, a bathing cap occupied no space.