Ulla-Lena Lundberg - Ice

This is the way the pastor and his wife practise birth control. Work their heads off so they get to bed very late and then collapse as if they’d been clubbed. And in the day, anyone at all can walk in at any time, which promotes abstinence and chastity.

The time is well chosen. The herring market in Helsingfors begins the second Sunday in October, and large portions of the congregation head off well in advance. The last Sunday they’re at home, many of them come to church. It’s like a thanksgiving celebration for the completed fishing season. The pastor prays for those travelling to the market, and they sing a hymn about the changing seasons, “As Transformation Overtakes the Brightest Summer Day”. You can hear that the voices are hoarser and less exuberant than they were in the summer. The wind roars in the roof, and draughts make the candles flutter. Mona has put clusters of rowan berries in the altar vases since there are no longer any flowers. When the congregation heads off for home, the following wind is so strong that the boats’ exhaust fumes blow forward. When the verger has gone, they’re alone. For three weeks, so many people are gone that it no longer pays to plan gatherings of any kind. Complete tranquillity reigns.

They look at each other and then look away. He stretches out his hand, and she backs off. She takes Sanna by the hand and walks with small birdlike steps. He follows closely, gently exultant, his body as warm as liquid bronze despite the storm. Into the parsonage, off with his kaftan. And?

Barely past noon. Potty time for Sanna. Sunday lunch on the table. Petter can hardly stand to watch the spoon going in and out between his wife’s lips. Sanna fusses. She’s usually so good and now she’s difficult, whining and complaining for no reason. He doesn’t want to hold her, even though she’s reaching out for him in tears. Mama takes her arm hard. “Now you be quiet! Time for your nap!”

Normally, Sanna takes a good long nap in the great quiet of a Sunday afternoon, but getting her to fall asleep today is like pulling teeth. She bounces up and down in her crib and cannot rest. Mama gives up trying and goes out to the kitchen to wash the dishes. “Let her fuss for a while,” she says to Petter, who throws himself down with a three-day-old newspaper and tries to read. When it’s quiet in the bedroom, he looks up. Mona looks out through the kitchen door and stands still, listening. “I’m just going to …” she says, finish up, or whatever it was she meant to say, but just as he hears her throw the dishwater quickly into the slop bucket, Sanna gives a howl from the bedroom. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with her, except that she senses that they desperately want her to fall asleep. And sleep long and deep. Not on her life!

It gets later and later, and for the first time ever when Sanna doesn’t want to take her nap, Mama gives up. Mama always wins, but now she looks at the clock and goes into the bedroom and picks up Sanna from her crib. “If it doesn’t suit you, then you can just please stay awake until tonight!” she says angrily. “Otherwise you’ll never get to sleep this evening!” Sanna hiccups from fear. When Mama is this angry, knowing a lot of words and whole sentences doesn’t help. The only thing to do is cry, and Papa has taken shelter and pretends not to hear.

Sanna, usually so bright and curious, always finding something to do, is now nothing but unhappy. Tired, despondent. When it looks like she might be wilting, sitting on the floor and rubbing her eyes, Mama gives her a shake. “It was you who wanted to stay awake, little lady, so now just be so kind!” she says. They drink their afternoon coffee, and Sanna won’t drink a drop of milk or chew on some bread, she just sobs. The evening is so far off that it’s hard to imagine the day will ever end. Mama is mad and in a terrible mood and Papa doesn’t dare say a word.

“Do we really want another one?” she says to him. He laughs timidly, cautiously, maybe not understanding what she means any better than Sanna. Only that she’s angry and won’t ever forgive her for not taking her nap.

Then finally she goes out to do the milking, and Papa takes Sanna in his arms and they read the paper together. Much has happened on Åland and in the world, and Papa’s voice rumbles so pleasantly when she leans her head against his chest. She almost falls asleep, but then Papa moves and says, “Well, well, Sanna, we’ll eat as soon as Mama comes back, and it’s a good idea for you to stay up. Then you can go to bed right after supper.”

He says it nicely, but she is so tired that she starts to cry again, and he’s sorry. “Sweetheart,” he says. “Darling girl. Believe me. This will pass. Tonight you’ll sleep like a log and tomorrow morning you’ll be happy again. Come, we’ll get everything ready so we can eat as soon as Mama comes in.”

They go to the kitchen and Papa puts water in the saucepans and gets the fire going in the stove, and then he sets the table. There’s fish soup to warm up, and he slices the bread and puts out the butter and sets out plates and silverware and glasses and Sanna’s cup. Mama should come now, but she doesn’t, and again they don’t know what to do. Papa can’t leave Sanna alone in order to go out and see what’s keeping her, and if he takes her along on his arm, Mama will be angry because she’s crying.

They wait, Papa more nervous that he will admit, and finally she comes. Rips open the door, closes it with a bang. Clatters angrily with the milk cans, tears off her coat, slams her boots against the wall. Papa looks cautiously into the hall. “What’s wrong? We started to worry. I would have come out, but …”

“Confounded cows! First I couldn’t find them anywhere and they didn’t come when I called. I was up on the hill to see if I could spot them, and then I went down towards the tenants’, and that put me in such a rage I almost had a heart attack. This time it was our cows that had flattened the fence and gone over to their cows. Wretched animals! As if they didn’t have good grazing on our own meadow even after we cut it, at least compared with the tenants. Their cows are grazing on bare rock. And I had to go in and beg their pardon. You can’t imagine how painful that was. Here I’ve complained to them so, because they let their cows come over to us, and now it was ours that went over to them. You can imagine how smug they looked! I could have … Anyway, I chased them out of there quick as a wink, and when we got to the milking place, Apple wouldn’t let me tie her up. She balked and knocked into Goody, who also started to run away. If I’d had a gun, Apple would have got a bullet between the eyes! I’m not going to put up with it! Tomorrow I’m putting them in the barn. They’ve been out too long already, and we’ve got plenty of hay. You’ll have to fix that fence the first thing you do in the morning!”

All the pastor can manage is an occasional “Oh my.” Sanna sits paralysed on his arm. “Supper is ready to eat,” he says timidly. “The soup is warm. Come in and sit down and catch your breath. You must be done in.”

She gives a loud snort. Clearly she’s not going to calm down right away. She’s going to be angry all evening, it’s going to be awful. She’s been out so long that it’s already pitch dark. The oil lamp stands cosily on the table. Within its cone of light, a little family could be happy together. But not tonight. Mama gives in and takes her place at the table, and Papa serves the soup and tries to feed Sanna. He spreads the soup thin in the bowl to let it cool, but it’s still too hot when he tries to give her a spoonful and she jerks her head aside and hits the spoon. “Oh no! Sanna!”