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He has also roped up the new well cover, which took him
several hours. And he has to gather the new roof gutters
strewn all over the ground and place heavy rocks on top of
them before he is able to crawl home again, by which time
he is so drenched and his face so contorted that Ingrid can
hardly recognise him.
She doesn’t like these storms, the creaking in the house and
the trumpet blasts from the pipes, the whole universe in
turmoil, the wind which tears the breath out of her lungs
when she is in the barn with her mother, which drives the
moisture from her eyes and sweeps her into walls and
bowed trees, forcing the entire family to camp down in the
kitchen and living room, where even there they don’t get a
wink of sleep. Even Martin sits still when the Winter Storm
ravages his island, with a cap on his head and his great
hands resting like empty, immovable shells on his knees.
Except when he is holding Ingrid, who shuttles between
him and the table and the oven and the larder, and sits on
the peat holder, dangling her feet, after which she goes
back to Grandad and plays with his hands as if they were
teddy bears.
The adults are stony-faced. They whisper and scowl and
make attempts to laugh but see through their own play-
acting and turn serious again, true enough the buildings on
Barrøy had withstood everything so far, but that is no more
than proof of the past: once there was a house in Karvika,
there isn’t any longer.