“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!”
Mama flares up. “Hush! What is all this constant whining! You’re impossible! Stop it!” She jumps up and grabs a dish cloth, wipes up the soup with big swipes of the cloth, swiping Sanna’s face as well, who is now wailing. There is nothing here for a natural conciliator like Petter Kummel to do, only draw in his head and hope that the storm will pass.
“Now eat!” Mama commands. She shovels soup into Sanna, who doesn’t dare do anything but swallow. Papa can see that she’ll throw up before the evening is over. The day that began so well with church and best wishes for a good journey for those travelling to market has gone off the rails and overturned in a ditch. Sanna is the scapegoat, just one and a half years old, not old enough to understand that she should get out of the way and let her parents reproduce.
Papa stands up and lifts Sanna from the table. “I’ll go and put her to bed, and then I’ll wash the dishes. Just sit and rest for a few minutes. Have you even opened Thursday’s paper that came yesterday? Darling, don’t be so angry.”
Mama stands up also and snatches Sanna away from him. “Potty! And then she has to be washed! Put her to bed, indeed!” she snaps.
In fact, Papa knows the routine, but when Mama is mad he suffers a kind of paralysis and loses a good deal of his common sense. “I can do all that,” he says.
But just as Mama taught Apple and Goody a lesson earlier this evening, she must now teach Sanna a lesson as well. Nothing is easy. She demands submission, but neither of them knows how. Papa sits in the parlour and pretends to be deaf while Mama is severe with Sanna, who tightens up and produces nothing in the potty and who screams and struggles when she’s washed and sure enough throws up on the kitchen rug.
“Yuck!” Mama cries. “For shame Sanna! What a mess!”
Papa looks in horrified. “How’s it going? Can I help?”
“Stay away!” she shouts, and Sanna’s defender retires. She is alone with a force of nature that Papa sometimes tenderly calls his wife. Her distress is stretched to its absolute limit before she is finally dumped into her slatted crib. The pastor advances to perform his calling and read the evening prayer, but he is sent away. Mama delivers a “Now I lay me down to sleep” as if it were a call to battle, and rounds it off with “Not a sound! Now go to sleep! Good night!”
Blows out the lamp, leaves Sanna in the dark and goes. There’s a light in the parlour, and Sanna can hear them talking, but she is utterly forlorn and cries and cries. Then falls asleep.
So the pastor’s wife is hardly in the mood, and the pastor feels inhibited and inadequate. Still, he wants to show his goodwill, so he puts his arm around her shoulders and tries to turn her towards him. She pulls free energetically and snorts as only she can. “After a day like this, it’ll be exegetics for you,” she says. “And a letter to dear mother,” she adds sarcastically. “And I need a bath. Where will I find the strength to deal with it all?”
Now is not the time to say that if anyone can find the strength, it’s she. He wishes he had some errand in the village he could retreat to. A sudden call to a deathbed or some other watertight reason to disappear. Too late, it occurs to him that he could have started doing the dishes while she put Sanna to bed. Now she’s already in the kitchen, banging around, the door closed to the hall and his study in order to save heat. No fire in the study, where it’s a bit cold and raw, but at this late hour it doesn’t make sense to build one. Shivering, he sits down at his desk, his books within reach, church law completely lacking in insights into the vacillations and miseries of ordinary human beings.
There is reason to fear that the whole reproductive scheme will get badly sidetracked, but fortunately the couple’s youth makes it possible for them to make a sudden change of course. A night’s sleep works miracles, and had it not been for Sanna’s waking up early, something might have happened that very morning. Sanna has a baby’s short memory and wakes up free of last night’s abysmal unhappiness. She smiles and coos when she sees her beloved idol and says “Papa morning” and, for the sake of fairness, “Mama morning”. She is happy and good all day and falls asleep that evening without a murmur.
So the pastor and his wife lift her slatted crib into the study and return to the bedroom. “Wow, it’s cold! Get in quickly! Oh, your feet are freezing.”
While the market folk are away and the Örlands catch their breath after all the hectic activity, the parsonage is steaming hot. M
ona’s passion is as powerful as her rage, and Petter has good health and staying power. Even before the market boats have returned, weeks later, the pastor’s wife can say with certainty that she is with child.
Chapter Ten
BY THE TIME THE MARKET TRAVELLERS RETURN, autumn has taken a great leap forward. They have done well. Post-war Finland cries for salt herring, hazelnuts, wool yarn, everything. Lovely wads of cash warm their breasts, the men are dressed like gangster bosses, with padded shoulders and, here and there, the gleam of a new gold tooth. The children’s cheeks are puffed with goodies, the women have dress fabrics spread across their kitchen tables, scissors poised hesitantly above the patterns pinned to the material. There are new oilcloths, cooking pots, two or three battery-driven radios, shiny shoes, winter coats, nylon stockings. Solvency soothes them, the fishing is over, there is no rush.
He sees new sides of his beloved parish constantly, so many expressions on their graphic faces, so many words in their mouths, the pastor takes joy in every reunion. People stay ashore and are sociable and content and go happily to parties and Bible study in the villages. The Public Health Association holds a members meeting about the Health Care Centre, which will be built partly with donated money, partly with the labour of the Örlanders themselves. The membership consists of the pastor (chairman) and Irina Gyllen (secretary) plus thirty members, most of whom are also members of the local council and the vestry. Among them are the organist and Lydia Manström and a carefully balanced selection of worthy persons from the two halves of the community. Plus the manager of the Co-op, Adele Bergman, a key figure as the person who requisitions building materials and furnishings.
The organist has told him that the two blocks are equal in strength. The priest himself and Doctor Gyllen are the wild cards. Before the meeting starts, the villages count their troops and a noticeable unrest is discernible. The east villages have fifteen members present, the west villages the same. Doctor Gyllen will vote strictly in accordance with the best interests of the Health Care Centre, not specified in advance, while the pastor is thought to lean towards the west on account of his close friendship with the organist. If both he and Doctor Gyllen vote on the west side, things will go badly for the east villagers. Gustaf Sörling is seen to stride to the telephone, turn the crank and ask to be connected to Erik Johansson, the only member of the steering committee not present. Something that sounds like an order is discharged into the receiver. Gustaf Sörling rings off and walks to the rostrum, leans forward and wonders if the meeting might be delayed for a short time so that Erik, who’s had some trouble with his horse, can get to the meeting.
“Yes of course, by all means,” the pastor says, knowing that everyone will welcome the opportunity for further intrigue. It takes a good long time for Erik Johansson to appear, wearing a suit jacket thrown over everyday clothes, and with a bad cold. He slinks in on the east side and gets his instructions from Gustaf Sörling, who then nods to the pastor.
He looks out over the assembly. They are all of them older than he, and they know how everything is to be done, but they look at him with friendly faces when he sits down at the table and thanks them for their trust. “We are all friends here,” he says, “so just tell me if I make a mistake or miss something important.” He turns to Doctor Gyllen. “The key person sits right here. We can count ourselves fortunate to have our real expert on hand. Doctor Gyllen knows better than anyone what the Health Care Centre should include in order to serve its purpose as effectively as possible.”
“It is a great help that our foremost donator is also doctor,” Doctor Gyllen says. “He has sent a drawing. I send it around. We see here thoughtful plans. Practical. First floor—hallway, two small patient rooms. One examination room. Small operations can be done. Larger if crisis. School health care, vaccinations, doctor. Little kitchen for sterilizing, maybe cup of coffee to pep up. WC. Upper storey—office space. Small kitchen, WC. Flat for nurse. Cellar—furnace room, large kitchen for cooking food. Dressing room. Storage room. WC, sauna, laundry. Well planned. I recommend.”
The drawing is passed around. Like a whole little hospital, unbelievably well equipped. What a fantastic thing for the whole community! Everyone agrees on this, and it is a happy thought that a part of the cost will be borne by the Örlands’ own successful son.
Adele Bergman studies the drawings with particular interest. The financing is all arranged! she thinks triumphantly. Cooperative Central in Åbo will now get an order that will shut their mouths. Calmly, slowly, methodically, she will call in her order, then complement it with a neatly typed list, sent by post, detailing each item. The largest order ever to come from the Örlands. Yes, we’re building a Health Care Centre out here. Cement mixer, cement, bricks, sheet metal, lumber—for starters. “Yes, a cargo boat will be hired and sent to collect the materials when they’re ready. Thank you! Goodbye.” Sweet.
“I venture to say”, she says solemnly, unable nevertheless to suppress a smile, “that as far as the Co-op is concerned we will manage the requisitions and deliveries. We can handle most of it through the Co-op Central Office. We have contacts for the remainder. The most important thing right now is to form a building committee to find a contractor in Åbo or Mariehamn who can estimate our materials requirements and oversee construction. That we can do with our own labour, with the exception of a plumbing contractor who knows central heating and can lay water lines and water closets.”
The members look at each other in wonderment. Central heating! Water closets! Uttered calmly by Adele Bergman as if they were the most ordinary things in the world. She ought to be chairman, the pastor thinks. What a woman!
“Thank you,” he says. “It is reassuring that we have Mrs Bergman’s expertise and business contacts to fall back on. The next step is to establish a building committee. You, my friends, know much better than I who among you has the necessary experience and is best suited to be on the committee. I call for suggestions. Or, ah, perhaps we should have an informal discussion first.”
He has noticed a meaningful glance from the organist. He and Adele Bergman are in a huddle—the two of them have long been in general agreement on communal issues. The organist has a seat on the Co-op’s steering committee and both of them are members of the vestry. The organist is also on the local council. They confer quietly for a moment. A certain uneasiness spreads through what the pastor now knows to be the block representing the east villages. Sörling clears his throat. “Mr Chairman!” Petter nods.
”I would like to point out that in this community we strive for a fair distribution of representatives from the two halves of the parish.” The east block nods and murmurs its agreement.
“A commendable goal. You need only make nominations. The usual thing is a committee with four members. And in cases where the vote is two against two, the chairman has the deciding vote.” He looks around. His friend the organist looks pained and asks for the floor.
“Mr Chairman. In this case we need to think first and foremost about competence. On the western side we have Fridolf Söderström who has worked as a carpenter in America. He’s just the man. As is Brynolf from Udden, who has built houses and fishing boats. Anyone who wants can go out to Udden and look at the house he built there last year.”
“That’s two,” says Petter in his innocence.
“Mr Chairman!” says Adele Bergman. She looks the way she looks when she takes Holy Communion—someone has to. “Most of all we need a chairman for the building committee. Our excellent organist has been foreman for the construction of both the Co-op store and the Coast Guard station. I nominate him.”
The organist looks pained. “I understand the viewpoint of the east side. Let us first hear their nominations. They have good candidates.”
The pastor notes that the east villagers are not impressed by the organist’s magnanimity. The word “tactic” is perhaps included in their muttered discussion. “Mr Chairman!” It is Lydia Manström, their designated spokesperson. “I nominate G
ustaf Sörling and Håkan Ström. Sörling has been active in local government for many years and is very experienced. Ström is known as a good builder and shipper. We have here an excellent candidate for chairman and a committee member with a strong practical bent.”
“Second,” says the whole east block and the organist. The pastor looks at him furtively. “Are there other nominations? … No? … Yes? Please go ahead.”
It is Gustaf Sörling himself. “I nominate Viking Holm. A relatively new force on the council who has already demonstrated his abilities.”
The entire east side says “Second!” A certain unease is visible on the west side, which puts its heads together. The pastor has a sense of the situation. If the west side splits its votes among three candidates and gives too many votes to one of them without calculating in advance how many votes each candidate should get, the east side, with disciplined voting, has a chance of electing three candidates. Coup! A dilemma. The pastor proposes a recess and then a vote by secret ballot. Everyone agrees. The west side gathers quickly at one end of the schoolroom and the east side at the other while the pastor and Doctor Gyllen prepare the ballots at the speaker’s podium.
They smile at one another. “You know what will happen?” Doctor Gyllen asks.
“Two–two,” the pastor mutters. “In this case, the best solution. All the candidates are qualified.”
“I hope. Was worse when they chose the site. Then was war.”
The pastor sniffs. “The east side won, so that’s where we’ll build. The organist seems to think it best that the chairman of the building committee should come from there.”
“He is right. We shall see. We’re ready.”
The pastor looks out across the gathering. Both camps still lively, but there is more structure on the east, where Gustaf Sörling looks to be giving directives. The pastor clears his throat, taps gently with the gavel. “Hello, everyone, we’re ready to get started. Each person will get a blank ballot on which to write the name of your candidate. Then fold it and give it to Doctor Gyllen, who will put them in the basket. As you can see, it’s empty.”
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