round the family I have no idea. However, we were to be on our own, the three of us. And it was one of the best Christmases I can remember, even though it got off to a shaky start. We had been to the Årvoll Senter and bought a Christmas tree which we were dragging home on Essi’s fish sled when, half way down Traverveien, we discovered that Linda didn’t know what presents were.
“What are presents?” she said in a very quiet voice, after Mother and I had been talking in excited tones about Christmas lists, what we might get, our sky-high expectations, Mother’s relief this year at not having to think about whatever it was she thought about in connection with the family down in Torshov, and about Kristian, who had not only paid his rent for December on the dot but also given her an advance for January, so she would have a bit more to play with over Christmas, as he put it.
The significance of Linda’s question sank in slowly for her, it didn’t sink in at all for me, even though I ought to have realised from the pallor of her face, Mother’s, so all I was able to come out with was:
“Don’t you know what presents are? Are you stupid or something?”
Then I heard something I had never heard before:
“Now you just shut your mouth, Finn, or I’ll murder you.”
“She says
gifts!”
I screamed. “She understands
gifts!
Don’t you, Linda, you understand
gifts,
don’t you.”
We stared down at Linda in expectation. But there wasn’t a glimmer of comprehension. Scared by all the commotion, she had again held Mother’s two fingers in an iron grip, her eyes boring into the depths of eternity, and she wanted to go back home.
The rest of the day was taken up with long, comforting monologues from Mother’s side. About there being many ways to celebrate Christmas, Linda didn’t need to rack her brains, some people gave each other presents, others didn’t, there was no limit to diversity in this world, and we could in fact see that Linda was looking forward to the presents
she
would soon be getting when at length she understood what it was all about.
The Christmas hearts she was supposed to be weaving didn’t go too well, either, but I showed her how to cut up an egg carton and glue two tops together and paint them in watercolours, the way I had been taught at school on the last day of term, and tied a thread to them so that they could be hung on the Christmas tree.
While we were busy doing this, Mother sent me one of her new looks, which meant that she wanted to have a private word with me, and Linda was left in the kitchen fully engaged in her egg-box activities.
In the sitting room she bent right down to my ear and asked if I thought we should send a Christmas card to Linda’s mother since we had received one from her, with very spiky handwriting, and, question number two, whether we should show it to Linda because it didn’t say anything nice or personal, just Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, printed, and she couldn’t read anyway, on top of which she had never so much as mentioned her mother, not even when Mother asked, which she was trying to stop herself doing for that very reason.
I didn’t need to think twice, I answered no straight off to both questions. Apart from that, it was the 22nd of December and from my experience the post was a bit on the slow side around these parts. We found that out when we put the advertisement in the paper.
At first Mother shot me a look of surprise, then of reproach, then without warning she changed and exuded the new warmth. I was even given a hug and packed off into the kitchen where Linda was poring over her third cardboard bauble, which was black with runny yellow streaks.
“You have to wait until it dries, before you paint on top,” I said. “Look.”
I demonstrated while Linda watched. Copied what she had to do. But now that she had got going, there was no stopping her, Mother tried a bit later in the evening, we didn’t have any room for more
“What are presents?” she said in a very quiet voice, after Mother and I had been talking in excited tones about Christmas lists, what we might get, our sky-high expectations, Mother’s relief this year at not having to think about whatever it was she thought about in connection with the family down in Torshov, and about Kristian, who had not only paid his rent for December on the dot but also given her an advance for January, so she would have a bit more to play with over Christmas, as he put it.
The significance of Linda’s question sank in slowly for her, it didn’t sink in at all for me, even though I ought to have realised from the pallor of her face, Mother’s, so all I was able to come out with was:
“Don’t you know what presents are? Are you stupid or something?”
Then I heard something I had never heard before:
“Now you just shut your mouth, Finn, or I’ll murder you.”
“She says
gifts!”
I screamed. “She understands
gifts!
Don’t you, Linda, you understand
gifts,
don’t you.”
We stared down at Linda in expectation. But there wasn’t a glimmer of comprehension. Scared by all the commotion, she had again held Mother’s two fingers in an iron grip, her eyes boring into the depths of eternity, and she wanted to go back home.
The rest of the day was taken up with long, comforting monologues from Mother’s side. About there being many ways to celebrate Christmas, Linda didn’t need to rack her brains, some people gave each other presents, others didn’t, there was no limit to diversity in this world, and we could in fact see that Linda was looking forward to the presents
she
would soon be getting when at length she understood what it was all about.
The Christmas hearts she was supposed to be weaving didn’t go too well, either, but I showed her how to cut up an egg carton and glue two tops together and paint them in watercolours, the way I had been taught at school on the last day of term, and tied a thread to them so that they could be hung on the Christmas tree.
While we were busy doing this, Mother sent me one of her new looks, which meant that she wanted to have a private word with me, and Linda was left in the kitchen fully engaged in her egg-box activities.
In the sitting room she bent right down to my ear and asked if I thought we should send a Christmas card to Linda’s mother since we had received one from her, with very spiky handwriting, and, question number two, whether we should show it to Linda because it didn’t say anything nice or personal, just Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, printed, and she couldn’t read anyway, on top of which she had never so much as mentioned her mother, not even when Mother asked, which she was trying to stop herself doing for that very reason.
I didn’t need to think twice, I answered no straight off to both questions. Apart from that, it was the 22nd of December and from my experience the post was a bit on the slow side around these parts. We found that out when we put the advertisement in the paper.
At first Mother shot me a look of surprise, then of reproach, then without warning she changed and exuded the new warmth. I was even given a hug and packed off into the kitchen where Linda was poring over her third cardboard bauble, which was black with runny yellow streaks.
“You have to wait until it dries, before you paint on top,” I said. “Look.”
I demonstrated while Linda watched. Copied what she had to do. But now that she had got going, there was no stopping her, Mother tried a bit later in the evening, we didn’t have any room for more
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