Arne wasn’t allowed to leave his side. Their mother had been uncompromising when, earlier that day, she had crammed the lunchbox into the rucksack and screwed the lid on the Thermos so tightly that Arne had struggled to take it off again when they took a break at Sinober: ‘Don’t leave your brother. Do you hear me?’

Mum had rumpled the hair on both of their heads, even though Arne was taller than her now. In addition, Vetle had to endure a smacker of a kiss on his cheek before their mother had knotted the blue-and-white Kjelsås football scarf more firmly around his neck and pushed the two boys out the door.

‘Do you hear me, Arne? Don’t leave your brother, and be home by six.’

Vetle didn’t yet have a wristwatch, but he knew they were very late. Far too late, he felt. Darkness had crept across Nordmarka ages ago, because even though the sky was clear, the days were at their shortest now. The temperature had dropped in the course of the afternoon, and Vetle’s feet had started to freeze in earnest. The ski boots that had been passed on by Arne were still far too big for him, so he had swapped the woollen socks for thin ones when his mother wasn’t looking. It was bloody awful going around in ski boots that slid with every push-off. In all secrecy, behind the row of garages below the apartment block, Vetle had forced his feet into his old boots that were far too tight.

The skis were brand, spanking new.

Fibreglass, and the first pair of unused skis he had ever owned.

Vetle was only seven years old, but he had skied since the age of two. With his brother’s well-used planks, in Arne’s old boots and ski clothes. Heavy wooden skis, always too long, with scratches, dents and blunt edges.

The Christmas-present skis felt like feathers under his feet. Like air and next to nothing, even though these were also long enough for him to use for a number of years. His big brother had received black Madshus skis. Arne had fastened them on in the middle of the living room even though he was fourteen years old and had acne and a weird voice. Their father had carried up the long, slim parcels from the basement late in the evening, when they all thought that Christmas Eve was over and done with; none of their greatest desires had been fulfilled and the seven-year-old was struggling to keep his disappointment in check.

You shouldn’t be ungrateful.

It wasn’t nice.

And then there were new skis after all. Vetle’s pair was burgundy-coloured. ‘Bonna’ was written in bold letters on the bindings. Norwegian skis. Burgundy wasn’t as cool as black, but the skis were made of fibreglass and the only things he wanted in the whole world. The brothers got a pouch of Swix ski wax to share from Uncle Bjarne, that too a welcome gift that turned up late, when all hope seemed to be gone. Arne had stood in the narrow hallway, waxing both pairs of skis until the wee small hours.